Same Time, Next Week
by i-must-go-first
Summary: As the Italians say, "He who eats alone dies alone," and who wants that? A chance encounter and a shared meal lead to all sorts of unexpected consequences for the UCOS team. Hilarity and drama ensue, I hope.
1. Separate Tables

Author's note: This is my very first _New Tricks_ story, so please be gentle, dear readers. Also, I've spent large parts of my life in both the U.S. and the U.K., and as a result I end up writing/spelling/speaking like a woman without a country, so forgive the inevitable Americanisms and inconsistencies that will crop up. On with the show!

Separate Tables

The tapping of her heels echoed hollowly on the pavement, the only sound penetrating the blanket of fog that had descended suddenly at mid-day to enshroud greater London. The narrow side street was dark, the scattered lights peeping from flat and shop windows able to do no more than illuminate the small foggy haloes that encircled them. The evening was like something penned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and she might have perceived the atmosphere as eerie – might have, if she weren't Sandra Pullman, the Met's most prominent female detective superintendent and all-around tough bitch.

Her confident, take-no-prisoners gait faltered as she squinted to make out an address through the mist. At least the steady drizzle had let up for now. Maybe it, too, was taking a tea break.

Sandra felt her features relax into a smile. The sign – of the old-fashioned painted wooden variety – was so unobtrusive as to be virtually invisible tonight, but she could still make out the contours of a jolly little porcine creature. This was it, then: The Spotted Pig.

She stepped through the heavy door and into another world, one that was warm and cozy and redolent of the odors of organic market greens and locally sourced meats so fresh they were practically still oinking and mooing as black-clad servers whisked various gastronomic delights onto tables occupied by the gastropub's eager diners. The thought of merry little cows and pigs skipping off to be slaughtered might, she supposed, be off-putting to some people; but while Sandra was many things, overly sentimental was not one of them – especially when sentimentality threatened to interfere between her and a really spectacular meal. Besides, as she'd once admitted, she didn't really get pet people. Generally she preferred her animals cooked.

The apologetic hostess murmured that there had been a mix-up with the table Sandra had booked a month in advance – some green employee had slotted her in at a table often held in reserve for one of the pub's "special customers," who'd rung up to say he would be dining with them this evening. Sandra gritted her teeth but, when she was settled five minutes later at the end of the bar with a large glass of Shiraz clutched firmly in her right hand, she assured herself that the momentary annoyance was forgotten. Naturally in all fairness her booking should have taken precedence over the gustatory whims of some shadowy character who was probably a villain (not really all that unlikely, in this not-quite-gentrified neighborhood in the shadow of Smithfield Market), but she didn't bother working up to righteous indignation. She was too comfortable. The long bar shone a rich mahogany under the warm yellow lights, and she was still close enough to the corner fireplace to feel its flickering heat at her back. It was a welcome addition on this unseasonably cool, dismal evening.

Of course, the only unoccupied table – the really prime real estate cozily ensconced in the corner by the massive fireplace – should have been hers, but _che será será_, as the Italians say. Although Sandra had made her booking weeks ago, in the last twenty-four hours she had decided that it would be her own private celebration of the end of the case, and she was determined to let nothing ruin it. Her eyes roved over the appealingly ranged bottles behind the bar. The bartender caught her eye and offered a brilliant smile. He had to be twenty-five years younger if he was a day, but she allowed herself to smile back anyway before lowering her gaze to peruse the menu.

Sandra had been making an effort to do more of this lately, to take herself out for meals rather than nipping round to the local Chinese or tandoori for a take-away. It really didn't bother her to eat alone, except on the rare occasions when she miscalculated and was marooned amidst a sea of billing and cooing couples. (So she had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, which was an idiotic, made-up, over-commercialized American holiday anyway. But she wouldn't make that mistake again next year.) The Spotted Pig was relaxed and mellow, despite the hype surrounding its self-trained, maverick chef, who was creating culinary tidal waves on both sides of the Thames; no one looked askance at a lone female diner.

By no stretch of the imagination did Sandra like to cook, but she loved food. She _adored_ food – good food. She'd had her share of passionate relationships, but none of the others had lasted nearly as long as this one. She'd been a fool not to have taken greater advantage of London's burgeoning culinary scene in the past. Her mother had told her, rather bitterly, that she admired Sandra's ability to be alone, and it was true that Sandra was usually perfectly content with her own company. But somehow being content alone when she was actually home alone, with a take-away, a bottle of not-too-cheap wine, and the telly for company had always seemed less intimidating than being happy to dine out alone. Then a few years ago, after the dinosaurs had forgotten her birthday and she'd rashly accepted the dinner date from hell, Sandra's perspective had shifted. Fact: she was single, and planned to stay that way. Fact two: she was obsessive about the job, something the friends she'd had outside the force could not or would not understand. Fact three: she and her mother were not particularly close, and even had they been, Grace really wasn't well enough these days for outings from her retirement home. Fact four: Sandra would cheerfully join her colleagues after work for a couple of rounds down the pub, but she almost laughed aloud as she pictured them in a place like this, or in any of the tiny ethnic eateries that were her more customary haunts.

She leaned an elbow on the bar and took a healthy sip of the rich wine, her piercing blue eyes glittering brightly as she allowed the scenario to play out in her mind. Jack would do fine here. He'd be his usual polite, respectable self, and while he might sniff dubiously at some of the bloodier items on the menu – she couldn't see him getting excited about gourmet versions of foods like kidneys and tripe that had been all too common in his youth – he would acquit himself well. But he wouldn't relish the experience the way Sandra would. He'd be wanting to get back to his Mary, his garden, his golf swing and his whisky. Dining out with Jack was eerily similar to dining with another version of herself, just a version who wasn't passionate about food.

Then Brian – well, Brian was Brian. If it wasn't roasted, boiled, or mashed, he didn't think it was proper food. She could only take him to fine dining establishments that served jacket potatoes and beans on toast. Besides, his table manners were absolutely appalling; it was bad enough that she had to watch the man eat lunch nearly every day. She wouldn't voluntarily subject herself to more of that torture, and in public to boot. Sandra didn't know how Esther tolerated the man. But then, she considered, Brian's etiquette and gastronomical preferences were likely the least of the older woman's worries.

And there was Gerry. It wasn't as if he'd let anyone forget Stand-Up Standing. Admittedly, Gerry was more on her wavelength when it came to food – but _his_ kind of food, not _her_ kind of food. He'd have her eating horrible "delicacies" like stewed eels. If he were here tonight, he'd probably force her to order the tripe. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she was again grateful for the crackling fire. The one time she'd managed to take the team for proper Indian, years ago now, he'd moaned for days that it had done unspeakable things to his insides. (_Note to self_, she thought. _Maybe I should reinstitute the swear box_.) She could just see him at her favorite Ethiopian restaurant, sitting on the floor and eating with his hands. Or here! Sandra snorted, and then did laugh aloud. This was exactly the kind of place Gerry loathed. He'd never appreciate its merits, because he'd be too busy banging on about the travesty that was the gastropub. Ironic, really, since the food here was not so different from what he tended to prepare at home: traditional English favorites with a twist, made with fresh ingredients and a great deal of love and care. But he practically broke out in hives at the mere mention of the word _gastropub_. This was the same man who'd kept the mouldering mascot of the Old Trout on his desk until she'd finally, mercilessly chucked it. Gerry might enjoy the food, but he'd die before admitting it, since to do so would basically be to grass himself up. She'd have to sit here and listen to a treatise on the Death of Old London and Everything a Proper Pub Shouldn't Be. She'd need a whole bottle of Shiraz for that. Maybe two.

Enough of phantom dinner companions. This was a solo celebration of a job well done. The Met had seen the back of John Felsham for the last time. They'd gotten a capital-R result, Strickland was more firmly planted in their corner than even she had realized, and, most importantly, UCOS was intact. Sandra raised her glass, smiling again, and toasted them all in absentia.

The smile slid from her features. By "all," she did not mean Frank Patterson. Granted, he'd been right about almost everything, but then he'd single-handedly given Felsham the reason he was salivating for to dismantle her team and sack her into the bargain. Patterson was a loose cannon, and Sandra did not like loose cannons.

_All's well that ends well_, she told herself firmly, ignoring the niggling uneasiness that refused to go away.

Sandra slid off her bar stool to nip into the ladies' before her meal arrived, and as she turned she saw that the coveted corner table was now occupied. _Good for you_, she thought grumpily, swinging her heavy handbag over her right shoulder. She stepped forward, now fully facing the table she had reserved, and her jaw actually dropped.

"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, loudly enough that heads turned, including the head of the diner in the corner. Their eyes met.

"Evening, guv'nor," Gerry greeted her calmly.

Sandra gaped. "Bloody _hell_," she repeated, and stalked off to the toilet, now suddenly, irrationally furious.

A modicum of calm had returned by the time she emerged, at least until she realized that her wine glass had disappeared and a pudgy middle-aged man was occupying her seat at the bar. Her eyes narrowed. She needed to find someone to whom she could complain loudly before she burst a blood vessel.

"Sandra."

At the sound of her name she turned to Gerry, who was indicating the place opposite him. Her wine glass, before half-empty and now miraculously full, already stood sentry on the round wooden table. She blew out a breath and crossed the room, flopping down none to gracefully.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, hearing the strident, petulant tone of her voice but not bothering to alter it. "Did you follow me? And how in hell did you get my table?"

"Follow you?" Gerry responded, looking as if he were deciding whether to be angry or amused. "How could I have followed you when you pissed off from the pub fifteen minutes after we got there? I hadn't even finished me pint." He considered. "More to the point, _why_ would I follow you?"

"Then what are you doing here?" she asked, thoroughly exasperated.

"Presumably the same thing you are, I would've thought," he drawled, coming over all 100-percent Cockney. "'Avin a meal."

At that moment a waitress placed a steaming plate in front of each of them, seemingly offering irrefutable proof of the fact. Sandra took in the way Gerry's eyes lit up and he rubbed his palms together as he admired the crispy golden fat cradling his roasted pork. "Ah hah hah," he chortled in anticipation, and Sandra rolled her eyes, somehow further annoyed by the fact that they had ordered exactly the same thing: roasted pork with cracklings, mashed potatoes and mustard greens.

"Is this the one, ma'am?" a low voice murmured over her shoulder, and Sandra turned to see the server holding a bottle of the Shiraz Sandra had ordered by the glass.

"Yes, but I didn't –"

"I did." Gerry gestured for the young woman to place the bottle on the table, offering her a friendly smile as she did so. Trust Gerry to flirt with anything lacking a Y chromosome, no matter if she was forty years younger than he was and would probably call him "Granddad." "Jack had his end-of-case booze-up while Brian swilled in tonic water 'til I thought he was going to drown in the stuff, but you skived off. So here you go."

It was a nice thought, and Sandra knew she should say thank-you, but the words stuck in her throat. She had a few questions that needed answering first.

"And you? Obviously you had your big booze-up last night with Patterson, given that you were an impressive, even for you, _two hours_ late this morning. Didn't you want to make it two in a row?"

"Christ, I'm well too old for that," Gerry groaned. "I spent most of the day feeling like I'd been hit by the 77 bus."

Sandra finally picked up her fork and knife. "I noticed," she said as she sliced through the succulent pork, which fell away from the bone. "You did sod all at the office today. Not that Jack and Brian were much help, either."

Gerry attacked his potatoes with relish. "It was all paperwork," he reasoned boyishly. "And not only are you the gov, but you're the only serving officer. And we all know how you like to dot your i's and cross your t's."

Her blue gaze turned icy. "That does not mean," she began, punctuating the phrase by savagely spearing a mouthful of greens, "that _all_ the paperwork is my remit, as you well know."

"I'm not even certain of the status of my employment," he retorted cheekily. "Have I been reinstated officially? Has it gone through proper channels?"

Sandra downed a mouthful of the expensive wine and tipped a generous amount from the bottle into her glass. She hoped Gerry didn't expect her to offer to share. "You've never been interested in proper channels in your life, you tosser," she returned almost casually. "You were never officially sacked, as Strickland explained to you. Besides which, I did everything I could to keep the team together and –"

He held up a placating hand. "No one said you didn't," he cut in, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "But admit it, this is one time you were banking on the fact that we'd go rogue."

She didn't admit it, not in words, but for the first time since she'd spotted Gerry her eyes softened above the rim of her wine glass. After Strickland had summarily dismissed her entire squad, Sandra had simply forged ahead, ploughing on with even more than her usual relentlessness, refusing to allow herself to process how devastating the loss of UCOS would be. If things had turned out differently, with her boys truly gone for good, and she had by some miracle been allowed to hang onto UCOS, she couldn't have done it with a different team. She wouldn't have done it. She didn't think Gerry, Jack, or Brian realized that.

She'd seen the disappointment on their faces when she'd followed Strickland upstairs even after hotly defending the actions of her team. _By-the-book Sandra_, their expressions had plainly said. _Even after seven years, she'll do whatever it takes to save her bright, shiny career, but we're expendable_. Walking back into the empty office later had felt like walking into someone's tomb – hers, maybe, at the rate things were going. She'd seen those same looks yesterday when she'd shown up unannounced at Jack's, and they'd all stopped what they'd been doing and regarded her silently. Later, when she'd returned with Strickland, she'd hated the us-and-them dynamic that governed the meeting, because for the first time in a long while her colleagues, her friends, were clearly regarding her as one of "them," never mind the fact that Strickland had obviously expected her to behave in exactly the same fashion as her team: to appear, outwardly, to be following his orders whilst disregarding them. She didn't want to think too much about that – about the idea that those three had influenced her understanding of police procedure more than she'd influenced theirs, and that Strickland recognized it.

Brian, Jack, and Gerry's lack of faith in her loyalty stung. That, she admitted to herself, was the true reason she wanted to have a nice celebratory dinner, to affirm to herself that this really _was_ a job well done, and that she'd done all she could to make sure it turned out that way, even if her three colleagues saw it differently. She'd felt helpless. If she had completely disregarded Strickland's orders, she would've succeeded only in getting herself tossed out of the Met on her arse, and she hadn't seen how they could accomplish anything if all four of them – five, if she counted Patterson – were working outside the system.

When she saw how seriously Gerry was regarding her, Sandra realized she'd been silent for several minutes, and that her food was getting cold. "I would've asked you to join me when I came in and saw you," he said solemnly, "but you looked like you wanted to be alone."

"I did." She lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes and pointedly changed the subject. "You still haven't answered my question. I realize you're probably still too paralytic after your night with Frank to cook your own dinner, but what are you doing _here_? This place is everything you hate. It's –" She leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially – "a _gastropub_."

Her eyes sparkled and Gerry grinned, even as he looked mildly abashed. "Look, it's about as far as it could be from a proper pub," he began, and Sandra wondered if she was in for that treatise after all, "but considered as a _restaurant _–" He lifted his shoulders in a self-explanatory shrug.

Sandra took a long, slow sip of her wine. "I can't believe it," she said delightedly. "Gerry Standing, last proper _cockney_ standing – How the mighty have fallen. Cor blimey," she mocked.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He rolled his eyes. "I do appreciate a good meal out once in a while, even if I don't have a kitchen phobia like _some_ people obviously do. As restaurants go, you could say this is my local."

Her eyes widened as she chewed her last bite of pork. God, it was heavenly. No wonder The Spotted Pig was tipped to get a Michelin star next year. "You're the 'special customer', you sod!" she exclaimed. "So explain to me how you manage to have a table on permanent reserve at a restaurant where a mere mortal such as myself has to wait a full bloody month for a booking. Are you leading a double life, Gerald?"

The name made him wince. "As what, a restaurant critic? No, Sandra, I like to savour exquisite things, not tear them apart." The way he said "savour" made her cringe, and she shot him a "dirty old man" glare.

"Still," she murmured, folding her arms and leaning back, "this doesn't seem like your sort of place, and I've never seen you as the type to religiously read the 'Dining Out' section of the _Guardian_."

"Are you?" he countered.

She shifted a little uncomfortably, wondering if she should cop to the truth. "Yeah, all right?" she answered eventually. "You say blokes read the sport section first; well, I go straight to food. I suppose that means eating is my sport of choice, which is something I'd rather not think too much about."

Gerry flashed that brilliant grin at her. "I'd be proud. You're a bird who knows how to pick a good restaurant. That's a rare quality."

"I don't cook; I'd prefer not to starve. But don't evade my question. I _am_ a copper, you know."

"Yes, governor, I'd noticed." Sandra waited. "My cousin's a partner in the restaurant, all right? Colin Lestade. He branched out of the family business into the restaurant trade. And The Spotted Pig gets all its meat from –"

"Lestade's," Sandra supplied. For some reason this struck her as terribly funny, and she began to chuckle, and then to laugh aloud, while Gerry finished his pint and looked long-suffering. "Oh, Gerry – In such a hurry to get away from the family business, and now here you are, their 'special customer'!"

"Do you want to share a dessert?"

As attempts to change the subject went, it was a flimsy effort, and Sandra treated it with the disdain it merited. "No, I want my own dessert, and you're paying for it." She cackled. "Wait until I tell Jack and Brian! You'll never live this down."

He looked pained, although he was less unwilling to be the cause for her laughter than he would let on. Sandra hadn't done enough laughing recently, in his opinion. "Give over, Sandra," he wheedled. "Don't. There are many dimensions to the character of a man such as myself. You lot don't need to know all of them."

That made her laugh harder, and Gerry feared she might choke on her wine. She was doing justice to the bottle.

Unbeknownst to him, she was revolving a proposition as she calmed herself and wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. It was potentially a terrible proposition, but still.

"I won't tell," she said primly.

Gerry's face lit up with relief. "Oh, gov, thanks, you're solid –"

"Under one condition," she interrupted sharply. The light in his face dimmed, and Sandra knew he was envisioning inexhaustible mines of paperwork. That would probably be a better deal for her, really. But what the hell? Although she didn't mind eating alone, Gerry had turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant dinner companion, and she couldn't resist the opportunity to torment him a little. All in good fun, of course.

"You agree to have dinner with me next week at any restaurant I choose – one of _my_ places."

Sandra watched all the air leak out of her colleague, as if he were a giant balloon.

"Not Indian."

She shook her blonde head. "My rules, take 'em or leave 'em. Say Thursday at eight?"

He nodded slowly. Gerry Standing had never been a man to back away from a challenge, but for the first time in his life, a meal out with a beautiful woman sounded like something to be dreaded. "Thursday at eight," he agreed grimly. "Unless I have the good luck to die in a crash before then."

Sandra smirked, well pleased with herself, and tipped the last of her wine into her glass. Gerry didn't miss the wicked sparkle in her eyes. "Fine, then. Now you can buy me dessert. What d'you recommend?"

Author's note, part deux: I envision these "chapters" more as closely connected short stories than as proper chapters, and I've already written several of them. Please R&R if you want to see where Sandra and Gerry will eat next week!


	2. Live and Let Fry

_Author's note: Well, I seem to have two readers, so let's go on, shall we? For anyone who may be wondering, although this is another bit about Sandra and Gerry, Jack and Brian – and assorted others – will have more to do eventually, I promise, and this time at least the gang __**is**__ all here._

**II. Live and Let Fry**

Gerry was busy losing at online poker to someone who had adopted the moniker SuperSexyNan and who, she told him, hailed from Norfolk, when his mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket, signaling the arrival of a new text. Occasionally Jack or Sandra texted him if they were all out on inquiries, but Jack and Brian were across the room, bickering like a couple of old hens, and Sandra was ensconced in her office having "face time" with Strickland.

At the thought of the governor, Gerry automatically looked up to be sure that there was no possibility of her seeing his computer screen. She'd be irritated enough to catch him playing solitaire for the umpteenth time, but she'd be likely to eviscerate him if she caught him out playing a game that involved cold, hard, honest-to-Christ cash. She'd call it gambling.

Which it wasn't, not really. Oh, sure, some money ended up being Pay Pal-ed back and forth, but the real point of the thing was social interaction in an online forum based on a common interest.

_You sound like a first-rate prat, Standing_, said the voice in his head. _Not even you believe that load of old tosh._

It was true, however, that the gambling was no longer the real attraction for him. No, the reality was even more humiliating than that. No one needed to know the truth, however; Gerry didn't even want to admit it to himself.

His mobile vibrated again, impatient. It would be one of the girls, the only other people who ever texted him, asking dear old dad for a favor. Could he loan Amelia fifty quid? Could he do anything about the parking ticket that Caitlin completely had not deserved? Could he watch little Gerry – now not so little – Saturday night while Paula went to a hen party? And Emily – well, Emily didn't ask for much. If she was working a particularly rough case, she might want to meet up at the corner pub for beer and bitching, but even then she'd probably be more likely to ring Sandra.

Gerry folded – have at it, SuperSexyNan – and reached for the phone. Any distraction would be welcome, even if it came in the form of yet another drain on his financial resources. He flipped the tried and true mobile open – the girls kept trying to persuade him to buy something they called a "smart phone," but he was perfectly content with his stupid little flip number, ta – and selected the icon that allowed him to view his messages.

As soon as the name of the sender appeared, he frowned behind his reading glasses.

_New message from: Sandra Pullman_, the device assured him. _Received 16:21._

How was that even possible? D.A.C. Strickland was in there with the gov. Gerry might be playing poker instead of combing the BT directory from 1985 as she had told him to do, but this was _Sandra_. She bloody loved to follow the rules.

Didn't she?

But this message was definitely intended for him.

_It's Thursday_, it simply said.

He could be nice and wait until Strickland departed to respond, but where was the fun in that?

_Aware of the fact_, he typed rather laboriously.

The reply came less than a minute later, and Gerry surreptitiously craned his neck, trying to figure out how the hell Sandra was doing that without Strickland going through the roof. The D.A.C. was effectively blocking his view of the governor. Even hovering several inches above his swivel chair, all Gerry could catch was a glimpse of the top of Sandra's smooth blonde hair and the outline of her right arm, so all his efforts earned him was the momentary cessation of Jack and Brian's squabbling while they eyed him with identical dubious expressions.

"Yeah, go on then," Gerry muttered, smoothing his striped tie and taking off his reading glasses in a bid to recover his dignity. "Icicles. I'm listening."

Brian's entire body seemed to flail as he gestured emphatically. "That's what I'm saying, Jack. The 24th of February 1985 was an unusually cold day. The city had been hit by an ice storm and there were prolonged power outages in outlying areas, including Acton. So if Shaver took advantage of that to murder Mary Dawson without there being anyone about to take notice –"

Jack had adopted the scathing, world-weary tone he trotted out to chastise his colleagues, even Sandra. "Death by icicle, Brian? So the murder weapon simply melted away, hey presto?"

Brian smacked his desk in his enthusiasm. "The perfect weapon!"

"And no evidence," Gerry pointed out. "No forensics, mate. So until we come up with something concrete to tie Bobby Shaver to the crime, if it was a crime –" He left his statement open-ended, flipping the cover of his mobile to read the new message.

"So we're on for dinner – No second thoughts?"

_Second, third, and three-hundredth, sweetheart_. Gerry loved food, especially loved to prepare food, and considered himself reasonably adventurous in the epicurean realm. Like any self-respecting Londoner, he could do a red curry in no time, and whip up hand-kneaded samosas as an accompaniment. Sandra knew all that; she had, in fact, happily slurped up plenty of his curries, elbow to elbow with these two geezers. That was what made the prospect of tonight all the more threatening. Sandra ate things that simply were not intended for human consumption. If it walked, swam, flew, crept, or crawled, she'd try it. He remembered the look of mischievous glee she'd worn last week at The Spotted Pig and shivered. The woman had a mean streak half a mile wide. No way would she let him off easy. His stomach was already clenching in anticipation of having to digest spiny sea urchin or ginger-glazed duck feet.

Not that Sandra needed to know that, of course. A deal was a deal.

_I'm no welsher_, he replied, and tapped send. Jack and Brian were still going at it. Gerry stifled a yawn and glanced back at the computer screen. A new hand was beginning.

The superintendent's door opened and Strickland came out, mid-sentence, as he always seemed to be. " – And some concern about the potential reorganization of the Met in the wake of Felsham's departure, of course, but I can assure you there's no reason for UCOS to be threatened in anyway," he said to Sandra as she leaned over to stir milk into the coffee she'd already prepared at warp speed – good old Jack, he always kept a pot on – and Gerry wondered if Sandra noticed that her boss was addressing the shadow of cleavage revealed by her green top.

Sandra flashed that cool but dazzling professional smile and murmured, "That's wonderful, sir. I'm sure we're all relieved to hear that."

"Gerry, Jack." Strickland nodded at each of them in turn. "Brian."

He remained near the door, hands fisted rather awkwardly in his pockets, and Gerry curled his lip in disgust. Despite Strickland's unlooked-for appreciation of boxing, Gerry's opinion of the man hadn't changed: he was decent enough as higher-ups went, which meant he was a bit of a wanker, and he'd love to slip one to the governor if given half a chance.

Sandra had straightened up but was still smiling. "Was there something else, sir?"

"Oh, ah, nothing else." Strickland strode out and Sandra permitted herself a small eye-roll at his back before turning to her team. "So what've we got?"

"Well, I've a theory," Brian began with relish, and Sandra's shoulders sank as she sighed.

"Jack?" she asked hopefully, cutting Brian off.

"We've got sod all, Sandra," he replied succinctly, and Sandra's hand came up to rub at the bridge of her nose.

"Excellent. And I've just endured a solid hour of political double-talk that's kept me from getting any real work done." Her eyes, which she'd closed momentarily, popped open again. "Right. Who's for an early evening down the pub?"

"Ooh, yes please," Jack answered, and Gerry was reaching for his jacket with alacrity when the gov's voice sliced across his nerves in her best Ice Queen tone. "Not you, Gerry. Not until you've put away your mobile, finished with your internet gambling, and done some sodding work. When you can give us a full report on the phone records of all five of our persons of interest from August of 1984 through March 1985, then you can join us, right? So you'd best get on to BT. C'mon, Brian, I'll buy you a tonic water and you can tell me about your theory."

Left alone in the rapidly vacated office, Gerry reached for his desk phone, wondering what the bloody odds were of getting a real live human on the other end of the line at British Telecom at a quarter of five. He wouldn't play 'em, that was for sure.

As the plastic heated up where he cradled the receiver between his neck and shoulder, on endless hold with a 45-second loop of elevator jazz, Gerry had to chuckle to himself. Sandra's dig about him using his mobile was one of her little reminders that she'd scold them all, especially him, like naughty schoolboys if they put so much as a toe out of line, but she was the governor and would do as she pleased. He could whinge about it, but he usually had enough sense not to, since he knew full well that whatever perks came with Sandra's longer title and higher pay grade were counter-balanced by the other side of her job, which was listening to stuffed shirts like Strickland make speeches and shoveling Jack, Brian, and himself out of the shit more often than any sane woman would've liked.

But how did she know about the poker?

At any rate, she wasn't playing fair, and Gerry hadn't even left the office yet. It didn't bode well for the evening in store for his stomach.

It was after six when Gerry finally managed to extract the information he needed from someone who sounded like a real live person, albeit a real live person with a nearly impenetrable Scouse accent; but Jack, Brian, and Sandra were still at the pub, and mercifully they weren't talking about deadly icicles.

Jack ordered him a pint, his shout, as Gerry wedged himself in beside Brian and shared what he'd learned, indulging in a little moan about the person he'd spoken to by the way. Sandra snickered into her wine.

"What's so funny, then?"

"Oh, Gerry, you," she laughed, flashing a real grin, not the restrained smile she'd offered the D.A.C.

Jack placed the pint of bitter at Gerry's elbow and slid in beside Sandra. "What goes on?"

"Gerry's just 'ad the bleedin' cheek to complain about the BT rep's accent, innit?" Sandra returned in an exaggerated parody of Gerry's own distinctive manner of speaking.

Jack's look turned knowing. "Must've been a bloke," he dead-panned, and they all laughed, even Gerry.

"Mind if I join the party, you lot? This looks like where the fun's to be 'ad."

The voice was unmistakable, and the drawling pronunciation made Gerry sound like an elocution coach by comparison. Awkward silence descended for a few seconds until Gerry said, "Yeah, Frank, pull up a chair," and they all began to shift round to make room for Patterson. Gerry thought he caught a morose "Bloody hell" from Brian, but no one said anything overtly rude. Patterson wasn't half bad, really, but he changed the whole mood of the team, and Gerry knew he got on Sandra's nerves in a way that even he himself never had. Well, not since the first few weeks they'd known one another, anyway.

"What do you think the silly tart drinks?" he heard Sandra saying, as clearly as if she'd just repeated the words he'd thought were long-forgotten. Gerry was so startled that he looked directly at the gov and saw that, indeed, the silly tart's glass was empty. "Another, gov?" he offered, and she smiled.

"Yeah, cheers, Gerry."

After about half an hour, Brian began to make noises about being late home, and Jack immediately offered to give him a ride, surely eager to stave off any forthcoming invitations from Patterson.

"You're not leaving yet, are you? What's the hurry?" Frank turned from them to Sandra and Gerry. "Ah, you're a good man, Gerry, and the lovely Detective Superintendent can't possibly have paperwork tonight."

"Sorry, Frank," Sandra responded instantly, without even looking up from whatever she was doing on her mobile. Anyone who didn't really know her might have even thought she was being sincere. "No paperwork, but I do have plans."

"Gerry?"

"Uh, yeah, mate, I actually have plans too, unfortunately," Gerry replied half-heartedly, thinking that Sandra at her most diabolical would be better than another booze-up with Patterson at a "gentlemen's club" that was, even by Gerry's hardened standards, dodgy.

"I'd best be off," Sandra said, dropping her mobile into her oversized handbag and reaching for her jacket. "Night Frank, Gerry."

She wasn't even three feet away when Gerry felt his phone vibrate, and he swallowed a smile along with a generous mouthful of his drink. This time he'd expected the text.

_Get rid of Frank and meet me in the parking garage_.

Ten minutes later Gerry had done just that. "Oh, gov, if you wanted to be alone with me all this time, all you had to do was say so," he greeted Sandra, who was leaning against the driver's side door of her car, parked a couple of rows away from Gerry's.

Predictably, she ignored him. "Do you want to follow or ride with me?"

"You had three glasses of that plonk," Gerry admonished. "I'll drive."

It was a fair point, but she looked warily at his beloved motor. _Ride in that pile of shit?_ her expression said as plainly as if she'd actually spoken.

"I'll drive your car," he qualified.

Her brows shot up. "What makes you think I'd let you drive my car? The expert way you strip a transmission?"

"Well, your choice." He waited.

Wordlessly she tossed him her keys and walked around to the passenger side.

"Where are we going?" Gerry asked as he pulled up to the garage exit.

"Just head south. I'll give you directions." From the sound of her voice, he knew she was smiling. No way was she going to allay his suspense by giving away their destination.

"Oh, you are evil. Maybe I should've gone with Patterson."

Her eyes gleamed. "Maybe you should have at that," she agreed, and chuckled.

They rode in silence for a while, the quiet interrupted only by Sandra's occasional driving directions. She soon had them off the main roads and in a labyrinth south of the Thames. Gerry frowned, concentrating. They'd been heading in the direction of Clapham Junction about eight turns ago, but now –

"All right, gov, I give. Where the hell are we?"

The streetlights glinted off her suspiciously perfect teeth. "We're almost there," she insisted.

"What's the idea then, hey? We're going in sodding circles! Are you pissed?"

She laughed, and Gerry suddenly had the feeling she'd been working to contain her mirth for the last twenty minutes. The sound was warm and lively and left him totally unable to be irritated.

"You're just _taking_ the piss," he answered himself.

"Turn here," she said, unrepentant. "Left."

"What now?"

"Park!" she exclaimed, exasperated. He did, but left the engine idling. Sandra unfastened her safety belt and looked expectantly at Gerry.

"Okay, all right," he said. "The hotshot Super has been too many for the dim old copper. Where are we going? I'm bloody starving."

They were on a largely residential street lined with uninspiring postwar brick block flats. Gerry saw a couple of shops, the obligatory off-licence, and, across the street, the local chippy.

"We're in Tooting," Sandra responded snappily, and Gerry gritted his teeth.

"I know that. I 'aven't gone _blind_. I meant, where are we eating? Is there a Namibian fire pit round the corner? A gaff whose speaciality is a rare Indonesian mushroom fertilized only by volcanic ash and bat shit?"

She snorted. "Some detective. It's right in front of you."

He focused on the chippy, lit from within by the usual fluorescent lights. It contained a few hard plastic booths and rickety tables. "The Seahorse," he said dully, reading the neon sign. "You've brought me all this way to eat crap fish and chips?"

"No." Sandra emerged from the car and closed the door behind her, and Gerry had to follow suit to catch the rest of what she was saying. "I've brought you all this way to eat the best fish and chips in London."

Oh, now he understood.

_Evil_. She truly was evil.

She was also a genius.

And tonight she was going to fail. Because she'd brought him here not to torture him with some unpronounceable ethnic cuisine, but to beat him at his own game.

Fish and chips was Gerry Standing's territory. If you wanted top-shelf Scotch, ask Jack. If you wanted to know which sarnies in the Met's cafeteria wouldn't give you ptomaine, ask Brian. And if you wanted lethally spicy Thai curry with prawns, then yeah, ask the gov.

But fish and chips belonged to him, just like blood pudding and tripe and jellied eels. Old school London, like Gerry himself.

It was a major point of pride.

She was trying to hit him where it would really hurt.

"As if you'd know authentic fish and chips if they came up and tapped you on the arse," he muttered. "Do you even remember what it tasted like wrapped in real newspaper?"

"You know they can't do that any more," she replied calmly, pulling the door open. "Health and safety. But I can nip out and grab you one of the red-tops to do yours up in if it'd enhance your dining experience."

At her insistence Gerry allowed Sandra to order cod and mushy peas for him, but balked when she told the young Pakistani woman behind the counter that they'd share a large order of chips.

"I've seen you eat chips," he reminded her. "No way am I sharing."

"An order's huge, Gerry," she replied, unoffended. He just looked at her until she shrugged. "Fine, then. They're your arteries. Small chips for me, please, and whatever he wants."

"What_ever_ I want?" he inquired with a comical waggle of his eyebrows, and she shook her head.

"You're disgusting, Gerry. And so very predictable."

When they were settled in one of the uncomfortable booths with their drinks, waiting for their order to be up, Gerry leaned back and eyed Sandra speculatively. Under his gaze, she popped the top of her can and took a sip of soda, but eventually widened her eyes in exasperation.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Have I got food stuck in my teeth, or what?"

"What was Strickland on about, anyway? We've already got a case on, so it's not that."

She studied the bottles on the table, realigning the red sauce and the vinegar before meeting his direct gaze. "He thinks he's in line to be assistant commissioner."

"That's what he talked about for an hour? Blimey."

"Not in so many words, exactly."

"No, in that length of time I should've thought he used considerably more," Gerry retorted, and Sandra grinned. "That git loves to hear the sound of his own voice, doesn't he?"

"Unlike the incredibly modest Gerry Standing," she shot back, and nipped away to the counter to collect their food before Gerry could do the gentlemanly thing and offer. If she wanted to wait on him hand and foot, far be it from him to protest.

Besides, she was his friend – and boss – who happened to be a woman, not a date.

Not that he'd been on one of those in recent memory anyway. But he still balked at the idea of admitting he was past it.

Sandra smacked Gerry's basket down in front of him and reached for the red sauce. He grabbed her wrist, flabbergasted.

"Bloody hell, you _are_ an amateur!" he gasped.

She blinked. "Only for the chips, Gerry."

He moved the bottle out of her reach and shoved the vinegar at her instead. She rolled her eyes and seized the salt.

The fried cod was so hot it was steaming, and the batter was beautifully golden. Gerry grudgingly admitted to himself that it looked fantastic, but he thwarted the gov by again grabbing her arm before she could take a bite.

"Christ, it's like eating with a child. What have I done wrong now?"

"No, it's not that." He eyed her. "What do I get if I win?"

"Win," she repeated, twisting away and popping a bite of the fish into her mouth. "It's a meal, Gerry, not a foot race."

"I mean what if I'm not convinced that this is definitively the best fish and chips in London?"

She was plainly not amused. "I'm not laying out a load of dosh so you can stuff yourself at every fish and chips shop in the city, if that's what you're angling for."

"Nah, I can afford me own chips now Caitlin's got a proper job. That's the last one out of uni." An unmistakable look of fatherly pride spread over Gerry's face.

"How does she like teaching?"

"She's getting on fine, yeah. I knew the police wouldn't be the right fit for her, flattering as the idea that she wanted to follow in my footsteps was. She hates to take orders."

"I wonder where she could possibly have gotten that charming trait?" Sandra returned, the acid in her voice sweetened by a quick smile.

"Don't change the subject. If I win?"

"Eat your fish, Gerry."

He did.

"Well?" she demanded when half his fillet had disappeared.

"Good as any I've ever had," he replied easily. "But I've yet to evaluate the chips."

"They got an eight from the Russian judge," Sandra cracked, making fair progress with her own.

The chips were still hot, crispy on the outside but soft on the inside, and just greasy enough. "Excellent chips," he conceded, still calm, and a small, gloating smile curved his dinner companion's lips.

"See?" she crowed. "I was right. When it comes to dining out, I _always_ win."

He noted that she was quick to abandon her protestations that this wasn't a competition when the vision of victory loomed on the horizon.

Gerry took great delight in snatching it away. "You 'aven't won yet." He tapped his plate with his fork. "The true test awaits. Mushy peas."

"Mushy peas," she echoed faintly, rolling her eyes.

He took a few tentative bites, savoring the peas on his tongue, tasting them carefully as if he were a wine connoisseur and they a fine vintage, until Sandra looked as if she wanted to leap across the table and strangle him.

Gerry deliberated, assuring himself that he was being fair and unbiased, and that his decision was unmotivated by the desire to best the competition. "Adequate," he pronounced finally, as serious as Sandra had ever heard him. "Just – adequate. I've had better."

She crossed her arms and flopped against the back of the booth in disgust. "Have you had better in the last thirty years, or was this when other dinosaurs roamed the earth?"

"Yeah. There's a place down Bermondsey does spectacular mushy peas. These are pureed – pureed peas. The hallmark of a place that's run by a bunch of –"

Her horrified glance of warning from Gerry to the dark young woman behind the counter stopped him dead, and he finished pointedly, "A bunch of _novices_, I was going to say. Jesus, Sandra, I'm not _that_ much of a tosser."

"Not always," she agreed. "But surely the actual fish and chips cancel out the peas. Besides, I promised the best fish and chips in London, not the best mushy sodding peas."

"Now you're splitting 'airs, trying to get off on a technicality_. I won_, and you can't stand it." Competitive, was Sandra – as if that was a breaking news bulletin.

"You did not win." She stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Call it a draw." _I'm the governor_, said her smug little smile.

Back in the car, they were again quiet. Sandra rested her head against the window and closed her eyes.

"You want me just to drop you home?" Gerry offered, glancing over at her.

"No, I'm fine to drive," she replied peevishly, as he'd known she would. "Head back and pick up your car."

The only sound in the car was the smooth glide of the tyres against the road. Gerry wouldn't admit it, but he'd had fun tonight. He'd known Sandra Pullman for over seven years, but could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times they'd done something together, just the two of them, that didn't involve inquiries or interviews. She stopped by Jack's sometimes, he knew, but he'd never known her to pop round at Brian's, and she'd certainly never turned up on his doorstep or gone with him for a curry. As far as Brian went, that was perfectly understandable: Brian was Brian. But what could Jack do that he couldn't do? Gerry wasn't such a bastard. His kids liked him; even his ex-wives liked him most of the time. And Sandra liked him too, even if "tosser" wasn't exactly a term of endearment.

She'd had a good time too, he thought. She'd been smiling and laughing and relaxed, the Sandra they'd barely seen in the last year, since – well, since she'd discovered her half-brother.

"You did not win," she said suddenly, as if reading his mind.

He signaled to switch lanes. "Have it your way. You will anyway," he replied without rancor.

"It was a _draw_."

"Then if it was a draw, you know what that means."

The parking garage loomed before them. The drive to Tooting was considerably shorter when you drove on the direct bloody roads.

She didn't answer, but opened her eyes and sat up straight as they entered the garage.

"Rematch," Gerry continued. "Do-over."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Sandra questioned, smiling slightly even as she looked askance.

"I guess you'll find out next Thursday. Unless you've already got plans." He pulled to a stop beside his own car and parked.

"Uh, no, no plans," she admitted.

"Then you do now. Restaurant of _my_ choosing, a proper meal, one week from tonight." He got out of the car and tossed his jacket over his shoulder with an air of insouciance that was uniquely Gerry. "Thanks for the meal, gov. Next one's my shout. Drive safe."

Sandra rolled her eyes again as she slid over into the driver's seat. She'd better be careful; if she spent much more time with Gerry, she'd run the risk of permanent eye strain. "Sod off, Gerry. And see if you can figure out how to turn up on time tomorrow for a change."

He smiled blithely as he cranked his tried and true motor. "Sweet dreams to you too."

Sandra held her scowl until he'd driven away, then snorted to herself and shook her head as she put the car into gear. Say what you would about him – and she not only had, but planned to continue doing so in the future, with "tosser" being near the top of the list – but there was definitely only one Gerry Standing.

Thank Christ.

**I'm doing this for my own entertainment, but I'd love to know if someone else is reading – and, I hope, enjoying – too! Please do R&R, lovely people.**


	3. Chicken Soup for the Solo

III. Chicken Soup for the Solo

"What do you mean, she's still off sick?" Brian's rising tone held an unmistakable edge of panic.

"I mean, Brian, that Sandra is still at home with the flu," Jack replied slowly and clearly as he went about making the morning round of tea. No Sandra, so no coffee.

"But this is _four days_," Brian replied, sounding as if the superintendent had been ill for four months.

"Morning, gentlemen." Gerry entered the office already in the act of shrugging out of his damp coat, and looked toward Sandra's closed door and darkened office. "Still no madam?"

"She's off sick," Brian answered, his tone sepulchral. "Four days."

"Yeah, that flu's a nasty bugger." Gerry switched on his computer. "Fancy a cup of rosie, Brian?"

"I can get it meself." Brian slowly, deliberately removed his cycling helmet, and Jack and Gerry exchanged a loaded look behind his back.

"Let's crack on with the paperwork," Jack suggested, settling himself at his desk. "Have it all done and dusted by the time Sandra gets back on Monday."

"_If_ she comes back," Brian mumbled to the electric kettle, and Jack sighed.

"She'll be back, mate," Gerry encouraged, taking his usual mug from the shelf.

"Of course she will. She has flu, not the Bubonic plague," Jack scoffed.

"She's never been off sick more than two days consecutively in all these years," Brian continued darkly. "What if it's not influenza? Or what if it's a rare strain? Even if it isn't, people do die of flu, you know."

"Enough with the mortuary gab." Gerry plunked his mug down and liquid sloshed over the rim onto his desk. _Bugger_. "Jack, did you speak to Sandra this morning?"

"Of course. She said she's feeling a bit better."

"See?" Gerry turned to Brian, hands on his hips. "Nothing to worry about."

Brian was not to be placated so easily, however. "'A bit better'? What does that mean? Does she have fever? Is she still vomiting? Does she have diarrh-"

"I didn't _ask_, Brian," Jack cut in. "And she didn't offer. Now, here." The ex-chief superintendent stood, took very deliberate steps to Brian's desk, and slapped a file folder down on its surface, jostling Brian's stapler in the process. "Reports. Fill them in."

It was Thursday, and Gerry was bored, existentially bored – something he'd seldom been since joining UCOS – at 9:15 a.m. They had no case to solve – not since Monday, when they'd determined that although Bobby Shaver had been plotting to kill his ex-girlfriend Mary Dawson, her death had been a freak accident – just a lorry load of paperwork to do. Without Sandra shouting at them periodically, the office was too quiet, and too – well, too blokey. Gerry was sick of online poker, fed up with solitaire, and had at last resorted to doing actual work to fill his time. Brian's moroseness aggravated Jack's surliness, and the pair of them were driving him bloody mad.

"Fag break," he muttered, and, snagging his coat with two fingers, stalked out of the office and down the corridor. It was a dismal day indeed when sucking down nicotine in the pouring rain was preferable to being trapped for five more minutes with his two colleagues.

Last Thursday night when he'd asked Sandra if she had any plans for tonight, he really didn't think puking her guts out was what she'd had in mind.

Jack said she was feeling a bit better. Gerry wondered what she had to eat in her flat. Not much, probably. She didn't cook. How did people _live_ who didn't cook?

By the time he finished his cigarette, he had a plan that he hoped would both cheer Sandra up and prevent Jack and himself from murdering Brian before 5:00. He sidled up to Jack's desk before returning to his own and muttered out of the corner of his mouth – perhaps he thought he still had a cigarette dangling from the other corner – "What say I take Brian out this afternoon to do a shop, whip up a light meal for Sandra, and then he can come with me to drop it off? Might reassure him a little."

"Might shut him up, you mean," Jack replied, eyes still on his file.

"Too bloody right."

The older man pursed his lips as he raised his eyes. "Do you really think Sandra's going to appreciate you two pitching up on her doorstep?" he asked cautiously. "The woman's ill."

Gerry raised his voice to include Brian in the conversation. "I thought I could put together a simple soup. She should be able to get that down her."

"If she can't, she should go to hospital," Brian put in woefully, and Gerry bit the inside of his cheek.

"You can be me sous chef, if you fancy the job. I bet Jack wouldn't tell the powers that be if we were to skive off early," Gerry forged ahead.

"Mum's the word," Jack agreed cheerfully, and Brian hesitated, plainly considering.

"What, you afraid of catchin' something?" Gerry goaded, finally returning to his own desk and shucking off his coat.

"That's a fair point. She could be contagious."

"Fine, then. Don't come, or wear your biohazard suit." Gerry clicked his mouse, deactivating the screen saver, and focused on the computer.

After a few minutes Brian spoke up. "She probably needs tissues and cough sweets," he mused. "Esther always has to buy me two bags when I have a cold."

"Right," Gerry said breezily. "We'll get her some, and then you can help me with dinner. How are you at chopping and peeling?"

Brian looked horrified. "I'd cut my thumb off."

Jack sighed. "I always helped Mary do the carrots and potatoes," he said. "We'll all go. I'm not staying in this bloody dungeon while you two piss off to Waitrose."

"Poncy Waitrose," Gerry sniffed, affronted. "You paying, then?"

The shopping trip took considerably longer than it should have, of course. Jack dutifully trailed along with Brian, preventing him from adding every cold and flu remedy in the entire store, including cod liver oil, to their basket, while Gerry zipped along with a trolley, efficiently gathering the ingredients on the list he'd jotted down from memory. A whole chicken. Cannellini beans. Fat, lovely carrots and white potatoes. Fresh garlic. Beautiful dark green kale. Tarragon and rosemary he had at home…

When he found the other two near the check-out lanes, Brian was talking on Jack's mobile. Gerry felt a chill of foreboding, but merely cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Jack. The other man shrugged.

Sensing Gerry's presence, Brian executed a quarter turn. "Esther thinks Sandra might fancy a film or two." At their blank expressions Brian's own expression turned incredulous, as if his colleagues were a couple of lower life-forms. "She's been cooped up in that flat for days, hasn't she? She's probably bored out of her mind, a woman like her."

Gerry folded his arms, resting them lightly on his stomach, and thinking that even at his age it was a disgrace that he could rest his arms on his stomach. He really should do something about that. "Okay, yeah. That's not the worst idea I've ever heard. Say Jack, what kind of pictures does Sandra like?"

Jack gaped. "How should I know?"

_Because you know her best_, Gerry thought instantly, but stopped himself from saying. Certainly Jack had known Sandra longest, had been her governor, and by virtue of that knew her best – as a policewoman.

"Suspense?" Jack suggested blankly. "Crime dramas?"

"Nah, I don't think she's the type to go home and watch actors pretend to do what we really do all day." Gerry shifted his weight from foot to foot. "She's seen _The Wicker Man_," he recalled vaguely.

Brian still held the mobile clamped to his ear. "Esther says classics," he volunteered. "Comedy."

Half an hour later, as Jack locked the doors of his car and trouped up to the entrance to Gerry's flat behind his friend, Brian on his heels, all of them laden with bags, he had a thought. "Did anyone ring Sandra and ask if she minded us dropping in?"

Brian's answer was exactly what he should've expected: "Thought that was your remit."

"Sod it, we'll take our chances," Jack decided as Gerry unlocked the door. "Have you got an extra apron? This is a new tie."

Sandra had spent the last five days – Christ, it seemed like fifty – feeling like unholy hell. Now – well, now she felt more like purgatory. Her fever had broken some time during the seemingly endless night and she'd spent today dozing in bed, occasionally cracking an eyelid open long enough to flip between crap chat shows. The best news was that all of her bodily fluids seemed to be staying where they belonged; the worst was that as the sun gradually sank below the horizon she was growing increasingly restless. She'd showered and changed into clean pyjamas, hoping the hot water and steam might relax her, will her back to drowsiness; but instead she'd emerged feeling vaguely hungry, but unable to face the prospect of more cheese on toast, and even less able to face the prospect of venturing out in public to buy something.

She'd transferred herself to the sofa for a change of scenery when the doorbell pealed. She turned her head – her hair, which was fanned out over she sofa arm, had finally finished air-drying post-shower, and hung in loose waves rather than in its usual carefully straightened lines – but otherwise didn't move. It had to be someone ringing the wrong flat, a misguided delivery boy or a drunken partygoer.

The ringing was succeeded by pounding.

"Wrong flat," she shouted hoarsely. _Now piss off_, she appended mentally.

"We've not got the wrong flat, Sandra. It's us."

Brian's voice. _Us – Brian and Esther? Unlikely_.

"Bloody hell, it's the Keystone Cops," she muttered as she slipped the deadbolt back. "What are you lot doing here?"

"Ah, we've come to check on you," Jack replied, stepping around Brian and ducking under Sandra's outstretched arm to enter the flat.

She frowned. "I'm fine," she groused, now facing Brian, who spent a long moment scrutinizing her from head to foot before giving an abrupt nod. Sighing, she stepped aside so he too could enter.

"Pass muster, do I?" she grumbled at Gerry, who brought up the rear, firmly grasping a heavy pot.

He glanced down at the red toenails on her bare feet. "You'll do," he grinned, and she was mortified to feel herself blushing slightly. Over the years these three had seen her in many situations, but they'd never seen her in pyjamas with no bra, no makeup, no shoes, and unbrushed hair.

Oh, sod it, the fur of them didn't exactly have typical professional relationships, did they?

"I've brought dinner," Gerry explained unnecessarily, and she automatically trailed him toward the kitchen.

"Wotcha got?" Sandra sniffed the air experimentally. "I smell garlic."

"Keep you from turning into a vampire," he retorted as he positioned the pot on a burner and turned on the range. "It's good old-fashioned chicken soup, innit? Good for what ails you."

"Homemade?" she asked, and he turned a look on his boss that informed her the question was beneath contempt.

"Go talk to Brian," he said. "He thinks you're on your deathbed. And he's brought you a treats bag."

"Oh, God," she moaned, but returned to the lounge to join the others.

"We've brought you some things," Brian announced, suddenly awkward. He waited for Sandra to curl up in the corner of the sofa and dropped the Tesco bag into her lap. "Some lozenges and… things."

"We were concerned," Jack said softly as Sandra looked into the bag, and she peered up through the fall of her hair to smile at them, her annoyance at being disturbed evaporating when confronted with their –

_Friendship, Sandra_, she told herself firmly. _Yeah, you're their governor, but you know they're your friends too. _

"Blimey," she murmured, looking at enough cough sweets to rot the teeth of an entire rugby club, and beneath them a giant box of tissues, a tin of herbal tea, a book of logic puzzles, and – "Ooh, _His Girl Friday_!" she exclaimed, extracting the DVD case. "And _You Can't Take it With You_ and _The Lady Eve_. How did you know?"

Gerry peeked in from the kitchen, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder. "Know what?"

The smile she directed at the three of them in turn was blinding in its intensity. "That I love screwball comedies. These are some of my favourites. Have you seen all of them?"

"Years ago, maybe," Jack replied vaguely.

"_The Lady Eve_," Brian murmured, speculative. "Is that with Bette Davis?"

Gerry snorted. "That's _All About Eve_, you wally. This is Barbara Stanwyck. Great film."

Sandra turned one of her rare "well done, you" smiles on Gerry, and he wished he'd been the one to suggest classic comedies. "It is," she agreed. "Thank you, boys. This was really sweet of you."

"The films were Esther's idea," Brian felt obligated to admit.

"Well, thank her for me." Sandra extended her legs, flexing her toes toward the ceiling, and looked expectantly at Jack and Brian. "So what's going on at work?"

"Gerry," she said a quarter of an hour later, after having taken a couple of bites, "this soup is delicious." Her whole face glowed with pleasure. "It may actually be the best soup I've ever had. I love the kale and – what's that spice, tarragon?"

"Good on you, gov." They were all gathered around the high bar in the kitchen – Sandra had insisted that she felt well enough to sit and eat like a "proper adult" – hovering over steaming bowls of the thick, rich broth. Sandra was still a little pale, but more animated than she'd been when they'd arrived, and she was eating the soup as if she were starving.

Maybe she was, Gerry mused. He'd glanced in her refrigerator, and the situation was pretty grim.

Especially someone like Sandra. Gerry loved to prepare meals for others, but had long since discovered that it was a special treat to cook for his governor, because she really knew how to appreciate food, to savour it, to take pleasure in the experience rather than just bolting it down – unlike Brian, who was currently producing some rather egregious slurping sounds. She enjoyed food, was actively inquisitive about it, and didn't eat just enough to keep herself from wasting away. It was a rare quality to find, especially in a woman. They'd all been taught from the cot up to pronounce that magical phrase, "I'll just have a green salad and a mineral water."

But then, Sandra was an unusual sort of a bird in virtually every other way, so why should she be typical in this?

"What?" the woman in question demanded abruptly, and Gerry realized he'd been staring. He shook his head and looked down at his soup.

"Why's your hair like that?" Brian asked suddenly, and Sandra automatically reached up, smoothing the tousled strands.

"What, what's wrong with it?"

"Why's it all wavy like that?"

Sandra dropped her hand and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Because I have wavy hair, Brian."

"But it's normally all smooth," he insisted, and Sandra reminded himself that the man's sole experience of women and their beauty regimens came from the forty years he'd spent with Esther, who certainly never would've done anything like straighten her hair.

"Because she straightens it, you prat," Gerry cut in. "Some bloody detective you are. It looks nice like that though, all natural. You should wear it that way sometimes."

Sandra blinked at the compliment. She wasn't exactly surprised that Gerry paid more attention to her hair than the other two did. He had three ex-wives and four daughters. He was perpetually surrounded by women. The day Gerry _didn't_ pay attention to a woman would be the day his heart stopped beating.

She smiled slightly. "Well, not _all_ natural," she pointed out, "although it was this color once."

Jack and Brian left after the meal, Gerry insisting both that he'd do the washing up and that he could do it more efficiently if left to his own devices in the kitchen. He tried to shoo Sandra out to the lounge, telling her to relax.

"I'm tired of relaxing," she protested, so he let her put away the leftovers before summarily tossing her out of her own kitchen. "Put on one of those films," he suggested.

She left amidst much grumbling, but Gerry wasn't surprised to find her lying on the couch watching Barbara Stanwyck watch shy millionaire Henry Fonda board a South American ocean liner when he emerged from the kitchen.

"Barbara Stanwyck – there'll never be another bird like her," he said admiringly. "All done in there, governor, so I'll be off."

She sat up and faced him. "Would you want to – No, I might contaminate you, I s'pose."

"I'm probably immune," he returned. "Would I want to what?"

"Stay and watch the film, if you haven't got anywhere else to be."

Gerry hesitated, his gaze sweeping over the living room, taking in the black and white image on the television and the woman on the sofa.

"Sure," he decided. "I haven't seen it in yonks."

He automatically headed for one of the overstuffed armchairs, but she drew her feet up to make space for him. "You can't really see from over there," she said.

He'd just settled in and they were watching the wily Stanwyck seduce moonstruck Fonda and his millions when Gerry's mobile went. "Sorry," he apologized, automatically extracting it from his pocket and looking to see who wanted to talk to him. "Oh, bloody hell," he swore, and selected "ignore call."

"Everything okay?" Sandra asked, her low voice the slightest bit sleepy around the edges.

"Yeah, it's Frank." Gerry switched the mobile off altogether before shoving it back into his pocket. "He keeps banging on at me to go 'out on the town' with him, and to invite Jack and Brian – even you."

"Even me," she repeated, and wasn't entirely certain whether she sounded amused or annoyed. Probably both.

"He's making a right nuisance of himself. Turned up at our local again last night." Gerry barely repressed a shudder. "He's not a bad bloke but I don't relish the thought of being his minder."

"Better you than Jack or Brian," she pointed out.

"Oh why, because I made such a good job of it?" he retorted, thinking of their last major, and nearly majorly disastrous, case.

She was quiet for a moment. "I know you did your best." Her voice was softer, more serious than it had been all evening. "Frank's excesses weren't your fault, and you understand him better than the others do. Certainly better than I do."

"Why?" Gerry asked sharply. "Because I'm like him? Hard-drinking, womanizing, witness-intimidating Old Bill?"

Sandra actually chuckled. "Womanizing maybe. But you're not like Frank Patterson. If you were, you wouldn't be part of my squad."

He couldn't really have explained the relief that coursed through his veins. Maybe Gerry feared he was like Patterson, or could become like him under the right circumstances. Or maybe he just didn't want her to liken him to Patterson.

"Christ, Gerry." Sandra's eyes widened as a horrific thought occurred to her. "You don't think he's trying to worm his way into UCOS, do you?"

Gerry thought it was quite possible, so instead of answering he asked, "Would you have him?"

"Bloody hell, no!" Sandra shifted, adjusting the throw pillow beneath her neck. "We don't need anyone else."  
Gerry leaned back into the cushions, smiling slightly.

"I want to be Barbara Stanwyck when I grow up," she sighed a few minutes later.

"Yeah," Gerry drawled, "me too."

Sandra laughed. "There's no problem there. You'll never grow up."

Somewhere around the scene when Fonda proposed to Stanwyck's card sharp character's alter-ego, an English lady, Sandra fell asleep. Gerry knew from her deep, even breathing and the way her body relaxed, her bare feet coming to press lightly on the side of his leg.

He should turn off the TV, leave, and let her get some proper rest. On the other hand, he didn't want to wake her. He reached out and switched off the lamp, leaving the room illuminated only by what was happening onscreen: the honeymoon from hell.

Sandra shifted as Fonda took a prat fall into about an acre of mud, and Gerry turned to study her in the flickering light. Asleep she looked… soft. Almost vulnerable. She'd kill him for thinking so, if she knew. Gerry smirked. Well, what she didn't know, etc.

The rush of protective tenderness he felt for her wasn't new; he'd felt it countless times, although he usually had the sense not to let on. The gov would be furious if she thought anyone might even suggest that she wasn't completely capable of taking care of herself.

Which she was. Gerry was reasonably sure Sandra could kick his arse. But still.

This, though – watching Sandra sleep, listening to her breathe, enfolded in the darkness with her, while her feet pressed against him – this was new. And Gerry was pretty sure Jack and Brian, not to mention Sandra herself, would _not_ deem some of the thoughts he couldn't help having appropriate.

_Time to go, Standing, you dozy sod_, he told himself firmly, and rose as stealthily as possible from the sofa. He took one step and the floor shifted beneath him, creaking loudly. Damn Victorian construction.

"Gerry?" Those blue eyes popped open and zeroed in unerringly. "Thanks for the soup."

"All right, any time." He offered a quick smile. "It _is_ Thursday. I promised you a meal."

"In a restaurant," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "There'll most likely be another Thursday next week."

She smiled again. The last words she said to him as he headed for the door were, "Crikey, Gerald, so there will."


	4. The Cook, the Thief, a Knife, &

_Herein, gentle readers, you get to observe the UCOS team doing some mildly UCOS-y things._

_Your lovely reviews keep me going, so please do keep them coming!_

**4. The Cook, the Thief, a Knife, and the Guv'nor**

Detective Chief Superintendent Pullman trained the full force of her electric blue gaze on the page before her, giving it the same don't-mess-me-about glare she turned upon recalcitrant witnesses. It was a look known to make grown men (especially those named Brian, Gerry, and Jack) weep, and had a singular power of exhorting the truth from even the most mendacious.

It failed to have the same effect on inanimate objects, unfortunately, and the numbers on the page remained inert.

"If that's a two, and that's a two, then that must be a three; but the second row could also have a four," she muttered, her frustration mounting.

The door opened and Sandra turned to see Brian returning to UCOS. "Any joy?" she asked, but the look on his face told her the answer even before he responded with a negative shake of his head.

"Edward Gilbreath seems to have disappeared," he reported gloomily. "I talked to all the dossers near Blackfriars, but as you might imagine, none of them claim to have been there seven years ago, and I doubt we're going to prove otherwise." Brian nodded to the page Sandra was studying intently. "How's the Sudoku going?"

"Slowly," she admitted.

Brian nodded again as he wheeled his bike into the corner. "Addictive, isn't it? They helped me pass the time when I was off sick."

"Infuriating, more like," she decided, dropping the book of puzzles and reaching for the late edition of the newspaper, wondering as she did how Brian had managed to stay dry. London was trapped under a torrential downpour – surprise, surprise – and Brian had been prosecuting his inquiries on a bicycle, for Christ's sake. Sandra had been in her car, but still, her hair was damp and her Wellies had sprung an unfortunate leak, and she felt like a waterlogged rodent. She had her shoes off and her legs stretched along the cushions of the loveseat to dry, but there was nothing quite as irritating as the feeling of damp stockings between your toes. She was bloody freezing, and if she drank any more tea she'd float away. Between that and the stubborn Sudoku, she'd had it with this day.

Sandra and Jack had been to question the mother of Terrence Stapleton, a 22-year-old killed in March 2003 during a botched attempt at armed robbery. Before being fatally stabbed himself, Stapleton had shot and killed the worker on the till at the off-licence he and his unknown accomplice had been in the process of robbing; so a national day of mourning hadn't exactly been declared in his honour, and although all the right forms had been filled in, it was obvious that no one on the Sweeney had wept bitter tears when the case went cold and they were unable to catch Stapleton's fellow thief-cum-murderer. Furthermore, the two men and their get-away driver, Edward Gilbreath, had fluffed the time of the robbery, arriving _after_ several days' takings had been safely deposited in the bank. Twenty-six-year-old Annick Wocjenska had died for the sake of a measly three hundred quid, but in the process she'd managed to wound Stapleton with his own gun. The pathologist's report indicated that the wound inflicted by the young woman was of itself negligible, a flesh wound to the upper thigh that could've been stitched up easily.

But Stapleton had never made it to A and E, since his unknown partner had finished the job by stabbing him six times in the stomach with a wickedly sharp kitchen knife. The flight squad's reasoning was that the partner had panicked, fearing Stapleton's injury would inevitably slow them down and cause them to be lifted, so he'd solved the problem by offing Stapleton less than two hundred yards from the off-licence. It was Gilbreath who had discovered Stapleton's body, having eventually gotten worried when neither of his partners in crime joined him in the Golf he'd stolen for the occasion – and really, who planned a robbery involving a Golf? Gilbreath had done a stretch for nicking the car, but had refused to give up the third robber, and upon his release from prison, he'd disappeared entirely.

Likewise the third man, taking the knife and the three hundred – 316, to be precise – pounds. The public tended not to care all that much when a criminal died as a result of having committed a crime, especially when he himself had murdered an innocent bystander in the process. The case had been left open, of course, but no one at the Met had lost any sleep over it, Sandra included. This was a file UCOS had reviewed in the past and set aside without flagging.

Now, however, if the case wasn't causing anyone to lose sleep, it was causing Detective Superintendent Pullman wet feet and frizzy hair, because six days ago two twenty-pound notes with serial numbers matching those of the missing money had unceremoniously returned to circulation – at a Thai restaurant in Ladbroke Grove, oddly enough – and the current head of the flight squad had received a handwritten note on the back of a postcard. The note, which was now magnetized to the white board facing the loveseat, simply said, "I know who killed Terrence Stapleton." On the reverse was a mass-produced image of the London Eye on a rare sunny day.

Alas, there was no return address (that would've been so obliging), and the card had been posted from a box in central London.

After Sandra had gotten drenched, Jack had gone by himself to the Lotus Leaf in Ladbroke Grove. Sandra had just unfolded the paper to get her daily dose of depression courtesy of the fourth estate when her former governor entered the office.

"The Lotus Leaf is apparently the last hold-out in London," he announced grimly.

Sandra glanced up from leafing through screaming headlines. "Which means?"

"No CCTV." Jack hung his jacket up and naturally migrated over to the kettle.

"Could they give you a description?" Brian asked.

"Of course not," Sandra preempted, and Jack's shrug confirmed her supposition. "You were gone an awfully long time," she added with such obvious nonchalance that Brian winced comically.

"Eh, Terrence's mother phoned. She found some photos of Terrence with his mates from school, so I dropped back by to pick them up." As he leaned over the back of the loveseat to hand over the photos, his tie hung near Sandra's cheek. She very precisely flicked one finger against a dark blob on one of the red diamonds, and licked the result from her fingertip.

"Also," she pronounced, beginning to shuffle the photos like a deck of cards, "you have plum sauce on your tie. The least you could've done was bring us some back. I had to eat in the cafeteria."

Brian's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "You didn't have the tuna fish, did you?" he demanded, plainly alarmed.

The governor shuddered. "Course not. Cheese and pickle."

"Ah." Brian nodded sagely. "You should be all right, then. Give me those photos and I'll scan them in." She complied, and the ex-inspector crossed over to his desk and cheerfully began to scan away, humming slightly off key.

"Jack, do we know who any of the people in the photos are?" Sandra asked, turning pages of the newspaper as she awaited his response.

"About fifty-fifty, I'd say. Young Terrence wasn't exactly the type to bring the lads around. Liz Stapleton remembered first names, mostly." By common consent they gathered around Brian's desk to look over the photographs, which were grainy as a result of having been printed on regular printer paper.

"Do we know who this is?" Sandra pointed to a lanky teenager who appeared in two different snapshots. Long brown hair flopped into his eyes, and his crooked grin revealed a chipped front tooth.

"Ah, in a manner of speaking," Jack replied as Brian took one of the photos from Sandra to scan. "We don't know who he is, but we know how to find out easily enough. According to Mrs. Stapleton, this was Terrence's best mate when he lived with his father in Birmingham, and he once came to London for a weekend. She wasn't sure of his proper name, but Terrence introduced him as K."

"Right." Sandra used her mobile to snap a photo of the clearer of the two images – it showed Terrence and K working on a rusted-out blue car – and sent it to Gerry. As soon as it had been transmitted, she dialed his number. "Where are you?" she demanded abruptly when he answered on the third ring.

"On the side of the bleedin' M6. It's pissin' down, innit? I had to pull off because I couldn't see a foot in front of the car. I _am_ headed back, all right? Birmingham's not next door, if you hadn't noticed."

"Shut up, Gerry. For once I'm not accusing you of being an irresponsible git. How close are you to Birmingham?"

"About thirty miles, if this rain ever lets up."

"All right. Did you happen to talk to Terrence's dad about a mate of his called K? I've just sent you his photo."

"I didn't happen to talk to his dad at all, as it turns out."

A dull pain throbbed between Sandra's eyes, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do I even want to know why?"

"I'm not acquainted with a good medium."

"Shit," Sandra swore. "Why didn't we know this?"

"Keeled over of a massive coronary assisted by cirrhosis of the liver night before last."

She tilted her head back to gaze at the ceiling and blew out a long, deep breath. "Shit," she repeated. "Obviously the local plod haven't notified his ex-wife yet. I need you to head back to Birmingham and go to the school Terrence attended while he was –"

"Ah, ah, ah," Gerry interrupted, gloating. "_That _is why I'm a detective, Sandra. I've spent a lovely morning at Holmes Cannaby School."

"Well, did you learn anything? Come on, Gerry, I haven't got all day." Sandra had begun to pace.

"Headmaster's newly minted, but I talked to a couple of Terrence's teachers. Troubled teen, not exactly doing A-levels, blah blah blah."

"I need to know about his classmate, the boy in the photo."

"All right, hang on." Sandra heard a grunt and a series of less distinct noises, and then the former DS was back with her. "Let's have a butcher's at young Terry's yearbook, shall we? Journey with me now to 1997."

Sandra rolled her eyes and thrust her mobile at Jack. "Talk to Gerry," she ordered, and stalked back to the loveseat, where she seized the newspaper and resumed her reading, or at least did a reasonable impression of it.

"Gerry's found him," Jack announced gleefully after a few minutes. "Keith McNally."

"Brian –"

"I'm on it." Brian flexed his fingers above his keyboard, looking as eager as a child on Christmas morning.

"Tell Gerry to find somewhere and wait," Sandra decreed. "We may still need him to go back to Birmingham."

Forty-five minutes later both Brian and Sandra were hunkered down in front of their computers, and Jack was making what felt like his fiftieth telephone call of the day.

"Anything?" Sandra asked, propping her chin on her hand.

"No," Brian responded morosely. "Keith McNally spent his teenage years racking up a string of progressively more serious offenses –"

"Vandalism, shoplifting, breaking and entering, GBH, breaking and entering again," Jack supplied, replacing his receiver in its cradle.

"Then he rounded out his illustrious career with a six-month stretch in the nick, and once he was released –"

"It's like he fell off the face of the earth," Sandra groused, running her fingers through her hair. "There seems to be a lot of that going around. So, all right, either he's dead or –"

"He changed his name," Jack said.

"Or stole someone's identity," Sandra agreed. "If Keith McNally was Terrence Stapleton's best friend and had a record that long before he was old enough to vote in a general election, what do you s'pose the odds are that he's the 'unknown accomplice'?"

"And murderer, you mean?" Jack spoke in that grim, determined tone that meant business.

"What I can't understand is why no one twigged on McNally during the previous investigation," Sandra sighed, turning her weary gaze away from the glare of the computer screen. She stood, fisting her hands against the base of her spine as she arched her back, and ambled to the centre of the office, where she idly began to flip through her neglected newspaper, automatically turning toward the weekly "Dining Out" section.

"Because no one cared," Jack replied calmly. "A villain got killed by another villain. But how in blazes are we going to find McNally now? Do a house-to-house in Ladbroke Grove and hope we get lucky?"

"Instead of McNally, it could be Gilbreath passing the marked notes," Brian pointed out.

Sandra nodded. "Or someone else entirely. We could have a forensic artist age the photo," she suggested half-heartedly, extracting the section she wanted and dropping the remainder of the newspaper on the table. Her eye caught by the leading article, she bit her lip but couldn't prevent a smile from appearing. "Maverick or Madman?" the headline asked. "The Spotted Pig's executive chef expertly stirs the pot." Sandra scanned the profile, intending to read it properly later, and wondering if Gerry had seen it.

"But those aren't much better than guesswork," she continued as she opened the paper fully, forcing herself to resume the thread of conversation even as she zeroed in on her favourite column. Cheap as Chips, despite its terrible title, dispensed spot-on reviews of restaurants where you could eat really well for less than twenty quid.

"We don't have to," Brian piped up.

Sandra immediately lowered the newspaper. "You've found him?"

"No." Brian crossed to her side in three efficient strides and neatly swiped the paper. "The _Guardian_ has. Look." He held the newspaper up so that both of his colleagues could see the front page of the section, which featured a large photo of Kevil Mallet, the creative force who had turned The Spotted Pig into a household name in foodie circles. He was pictured in the restaurant's kitchen, wearing ratty jeans under his tell-tale white chef's jacket. His hair was held back by a bandana, but his lazy smile clearly revealed a chipped front tooth.

"Bloody hell," Sandra gasped, feeling like a complete and utter moron. She'd scarcely glanced at the photo.

"Let's bring him in," Jack said instantly.

"And hope he confesses? We don't have a shred of real evidence." Sandra shook her head decidedly. "What we do have is the element of surprise. McNally/Mallet must feel very secure in his new identity if he's willing to have his photograph splashed across a major daily."

"The arrogant sod," Jack muttered between clenched teeth.

"Exactly. Jack, take the newspaper to the Lotus Leaf and see if anyone there recognizes Mallet. Brian, see what you can learn about our executive chef: who does he claim to be, where did he come from, was there a real Kevin Mallet, and if so, what happened to him? You know the routine." As she spoke, Sandra was rapidly putting on her coat. She buttoned and belted it with practiced efficiency and swept her hair from beneath the collar.

"And what will you be doing?" Jack asked.

"Going home to get ready for dinner."

Two skeptical gazes were immediately trained on her. "Dinner," Jack repeated flatly.

"Right." Sandra flashed them a quick, smug smile. "At The Spotted Pig."

"I'm no expert in these matters," her former superior officer began, "but how are you going to get a table at a place like The Spotted Pig on a moment's notice? Call up and tell them it's a police matter?"

"Easy peasy." Sandra's smile widened as she swung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. "I know someone."

Gerry seized his mobile the instant it rang. "About bloody time," he snarled unceremoniously. "I've smoked two packs of cigarettes and had three coffees. So can I leave now, or what?"

"By all means. How do you fancy a spot of undercover work tonight?"

"Tonight? Gov, I have plans," he whinged.

Sandra's tone brooked no disagreement. "Change them."

"So do you," he pointed out. "It's Thursday."

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Perfect. Because we're going out for a meal."

Sandra was already seated at his usual table when Gerry entered The Spotted Pig. He greeted his cousin Colin, who was doing a turn behind the bar, as he frequently did, before crossing the room to join her. The table was shielded from the rest of the gastropub by the L shape of the cushioned wooden booth, angled as it was away from the other diners and toward the fireplace and open-plan kitchen. The space was obviously intended to be cozily romantic, but it offered enough room for two diners to sit reasonably far apart, as the two of them had done three weeks ago. Tonight, however, Sandra was wedged almost in the inside corner of the booth, leaving Gerry nowhere to go but practically in her lap, near enough to detect the spice of her perfume.

This, Gerry reflected, holding himself as stiffly as possible, was probably a bad idea.

"I can see the kitchen better from here," she murmured by way of greeting, and sipped from a glass of water decorated by a thin lemon slice.

"Don't move over," she admonished in the same low tone as Gerry attempted as gracefully as possible to put some more space between them. "I can't talk to you if I have to shout and risk someone overhearing."

Gerry nodded, and Sandra continued, "That's definitely him: Keith McNally. None of the employees at the Lotus Leaf remembered him, though, so we can't definitely tie him to the stolen money, much less the robbery itself and the murder."

"But he knew Stapleton, got banged up more than once for B&E, and then changed his name," Gerry protested, his voice pitched equally low, but insistent. "That's highly suspicious, if you ask me."

"Obviously. Gerry, I'm not _thick_." She stopped, smiling sweetly at the cute young server who came to take Gerry's drink order, and then glaring at her colleague when he ordered a pint.

"Like I'm going to get pissed on a pint," Gerry muttered as the young man moved away, pre-empting any snide comments about drinking on duty. "Besides, we're not getting overtime, as you well know, so technically we're not on duty. And anyway –"

"You're not a copper," Sandra supplied Gerry's favourite excuse. "And you're sure no one here knows you _work_ for us?"

He shrugged. "So what if Colin casually mentioned it at some point? If I'd never been here and showed up out of the blue, that'd be one thing, but I ain't exactly anything out of the ordinary. "

Her pointed look and small smile plainly told Gerry that she was fully aware of the opening he'd unintentionally left her, but Sandra refrained from making one of the jokes that begged to be cracked. She knew Gerry was right or she never would've suggested this little outing.

Her attention was focused on the kitchen, steadily but not obtrusively. McNally/Mallet moved fluidly about the kitchen, seemingly intent on his work, speaking only to give necessary instructions to his underlings. He didn't look like a murderer; but Sandra had learned long ago that most murderers didn't. She'd told Gerry to ascertain that the executive chef would, indeed, be in the kitchen that night, but to do it subtly. As the thought crossed her mind she asked, "What did you say when you rang?"

"That I wanted to make sure he'd be here, because I was bringing someone special." He winked broadly at her. "You'll do, but stop eyeing up the waiter. You're old enough to be his mother."

Sandra sipped her water and resolutely kept herself from rolling her eyes. On the off chance that anyone might have recognised her from before, Sandra had minimally altered her appearance. Instead of her usual work attire, she wore a black silk wrap dress paired with ridiculously high heels, and she'd used a heavier hand than usual when applying her eye makeup. Finally, she'd let her hair hang in loose waves, which it had been dying to do all day thanks to the wet weather.

Gerry thought she looked stunning, but she'd probably copy McNally's technique and do him in with a kitchen knife if he told her so. Worse still, she might not kill him; she might just – interfere – with certain sensitive portions of his anatomy. Gerry took a gulp of his drink.

"Good job I didn't send Jack, then," Sandra commented loftily.

"You wouldn't've dared."

They paused as their waiter returned. Sandra balked when Gerry tried to order the kidneys for her. "Actually, Gerald," she cooed in a honeyed voice, "I'd much rather have a thick, juicy steak." She turned the full force of her smile on the waiter, who looked paralysed. "Rare, please."

"Yeah, all right," Gerry agreed weakly. "Same again for me, son."

"Kidneys," Sandra snorted when the waiter had scurried away.

"They're delicious," he insisted. "Just wait. One day I'll cook you a – What?" Her eyes had narrowed and Gerry automatically followed their focus.

"Now's my chance," she replied, sliding out of the booth. "Mallet's just ducked out the back – for a fag, I suppose – and I want in the kitchen." It was, actually, the whole reason she'd wanted to come to the restaurant instead of having the chef brought in for questioning.

"Why?" Gerry grabbed her elbow, halting her progress. "Don't you think I'd have a better chance of talking my way in than you would?"

"Maybe, but I want to see those knives. Besides, I'm not going to talk my way in."

She freed herself from Gerry's grasp and lurched toward the ladies room. He watched her counterfeit the unsteady gait of someone who'd had a few too many until she disappeared from his range of vision. She reappeared almost instantly, as if she'd taken a wrong turn on her way to the ladies' and found herself in the kitchen.

The staff were so harried that they seemed to take no notice of Sandra, who moved around the edge of the room. Although he was less than twenty feet away, the barrier between them made Gerry feel useless, as if Sandra had stepped onto the set of a television program and he was watching the scene unfold from the safety of his living room.

She had obviously already picked out the block that contained Mallet's personal knives, but she had to cross to the far wall of the kitchen, the one nearest the door through which the chef had exited, to reach it. The woman was crazy, in addition to being completely bloody-minded. No way would McNally have been stupid enough to keep the knife he'd used to stab Stapleton the better part of a decade ago; and it was even less likely that he'd be such a colossal idiot as to keep it at the restaurant if he had.

Granted, there would be a sort of beautiful, daring logic to it: where better to hide a kitchen knife than in a kitchen? It would be like the million-pound book Brian remained convinced was hidden at the London Library. And the way McNally cooked proved that he was a smug bastard, if nothing else.

Having bypassed the paring knives, Sandra was removing each of the large, wicked knives in turn from its allotted space, scrutinizing it before returning it. Gerry's attention was divided. He kept one eye on the gov at all times, while simultaneously tracking the movements of the other cooks, waiting for someone to notice Sandra and run her out of the kitchen, and watching for the back door to open.

Gerry saw the instant when she found the correct knife. She automatically wheeled toward him, and the look on her face was one of happy disbelief. She was clearly chuffed at her own cleverness. The knife had been on full view in a public place, so warrant-shmarrant.

"Get _out_ of there," Gerry muttered under his breath, but it was already too late. He stiffened.

Sandra's back was to the chef for only an instant, but it was long enough for the Mallet casually to pick up a terrifyingly sharp knife from the stainless steel counter immediately to his left, as if the movement were second nature. Gerry'd never been on a course on lip-reading, but it was easy enough for him to understand Mallet's "What the hell are you doing?"

Gerry couldn't see Sandra's face or read her lips, but he didn't need to. She'd automatically used her right hand to reach for her warrant card – Christ, she must've had it tucked inside her bra! – and would've said something like, "I'm arresting you for murder and armed robbery."

Whatever her exact phrasing, it did not endear her to Mallet. He lunged at her, not with the knife extended, but with a vicious sneer curling his upper lip, like a villain from a stagey melodrama. Sandra tried to side-step him, but her heels left her at a disadvantage, and Mallet seized a handful of her hair, yanking her head back.

"Drop the knife, bitch!"

If that hadn't already drawn quite a bit of attention, what Gerry did next certainly would have. Without even thinking, he leaped to his feet, narrowly avoiding upsetting the entire table, and flung himself across the waist-high wooden divider that separated the dining area from the kitchen. Several dishes crashed to the floor on both sides, plates shattering, and Gerry felt mashed potatoes oozing through the fingers of his left hand where he'd used it to brace himself.

"I wouldn't do that, McNally," he shouted. "You've gotten away with murder for eight years, but we've got you dead to rights now. Don't make it worse for yourself."

The chef stood very still, his gaze darting between Gerry and the knife Sandra still held.

"It's over, Keith," Sandra said, her voice totally calm and clear, although Gerry could see the pulse hammering away at her throat. He wished he had something, anything to use as a weapon.

As if governed by one brain, the other four employees in the kitchen had squeezed against the wall to Gerry's right, as far away from the action as they could get without actually running away.

Gerry saw McNally's muscles tense an instant before the other man moved, throwing down the knife he held while still gripping Sandra with his left hand, and then punching her in the stomach so she doubled over. He took advantage of the moment to wrench the knife away from her, and then light glinted off the blade as McNally's arm arced up through the air, aimed to catch her in the stomach again, but this time with something far more dangerous than a fist.

Gerry grabbed the thing nearest to hand, which turned out to be nothing more glamorous or lethal than a plate, and hurled it at the chef. It wasn't enough to do any real damage, but it altered the trajectory of McNally's knife hand, giving Sandra the second she needed to straighten to her full height and throw her weight behind the karate-style kick she delivered to the back of the enraged man's knee. He half collapsed to the floor; Gerry's hard kick to his back did the rest, and McNally landed face down on the black and white linoleum, still clutching the knife.

He immediately tried to roll over, but Sandra used the terrifying heel of her shoe to stomp on the back of the chef's knife hand, causing McNally to howl and then curse violently. Gerry threw himself on McNally's back as the other man flailed wildly.

"Colin!" Gerry roared. "Colin, you pillock, call the bloody police!"

An hour and a half later, Sandra and Gerry sat in the UCOS office, wolfing down greasy fast-food hamburgers and chips. Down the hall Brian and Jack were interviewing Edward Gilbreath, who wasn't so very hard to find when he wanted to be found. He'd just explained how, having spotted McNally by chance and followed him, he'd realised his best mate's killer was unscathed and successful – and that had made Edward angry. The money he'd used to pay for take-away from the Lotus Leaf, blocks from McNally/Mallet's flat, was part of Gilbreath's measly cut from the long-ago robbery. He admitted that he'd received it in an unmarked envelope a day or two after the robbery, and had simply kept it all this time – even when he was sleeping rough.

"He sent the postcard too, of course," Brian had popped in a few minutes ago to tell Sandra and Gerry.

"That bastard McNally," Sandra said around a mouthful of hamburger, "tried to _stab_ me." She didn't sound frightened, only affronted. It wasn't an image Gerry would soon forget, although he'd prefer only to remember her stomping on McNally's hand like some Amazon warrior and making him scream. "How's your hand?"

Gerry glanced down at his bandaged left hand. "Yeah, it's fine," he snapped, embarrassed. What sort of a twat managed to give himself second-degree burns by sticking his hand into a serving of mashed potatoes?

Sandra sighed. "It's a shame, you know – all that talent wasted." Her expression turned morose. "I really wanted that steak."

He chuckled harshly. "I still owe you," he said. "This does not qualify as a proper meal."

She shrugged. "You could say I owe you, since it looks like you're going to be in search of a new 'local' now."

"All I know is it's my turn to pick the bloody restaurant." Gerry shook his head as he crumpled up his hamburger wrapper and tossed it in the general direction of the rubbish bin. "You know what this means, don't you, gov?"

She shook her head, mildly inquisitive.

"It's a sign from the universe," he declared grandly, "and all its deities. A warning to Gerry Standing to stick to proper pubs."

Sandra laughed. "I don't know about that, Gerry, but promise me next week we'll eat somewhere safer – like downtown Mogadishu."

They touched the rims of their paper soda cups in a toast, and this time they both laughed.


	5. East of Acton

Thanks so very, very much to everyone who has read and reviewed. You've made my week!

Forgive me for some slight tinkering with months/dates, etc., but the NT timeline isn't exactly stable, is it? I mean, as we learned this past series, Gerry can't even remember what his wives and daughters look like… ;)

**5. East of Acton (or, With Apologies to David Copperfield, Sandra Celebrates a Memorable Birthday)**

"The rain it raineth every day," Jack intoned as he entered Sandra's office and dropped a prepackaged sandwich and a bag of crisps on her desk.

Sandra was slow to drag her eyes away from the computer screen, and her "Thanks, Jack" sounded distracted.

"Chicken and bacon with salad," he supplied helpfully, as Gerry popped over his shoulder like an uncanny jack-in-the-box wearing a hideous tie.

"So what do you fancy tonight, gov? Greek, Italian, Indian –"

"No, no, no," Brian interrupted from the outer office, where he was doing battle with his dripping rain poncho. "Esther wants you all to come round to ours. She's cooking something special in celebration."

Sandra's gaze took in all three older men, and she sighed softly. It was sad, really, that no one had asked her if she already had plans for tonight – her birthday, of all nights. No, actually, what was truly pathetic was that they knew they didn't _have_ to ask.

She mustered a smile. "That sounds lovely, Brian." While Gerry asked what they should bring, Sandra reflected that at least her colleagues hadn't forgotten her birthday this year.

Ironically, she rather wished they had. She would've liked to forget it herself.

Sandra Pullman wasn't one of those people who moaned about getting older, certainly in part because she spent most of her time with three men who not only considered her "young," but who continuously proved that age was largely a matter of attitude. Not, she mused, that Brian and Gerry were really _that_ much older than she was. Despite her fondness for calling them "dinosaurs," Brian was fifteen years older than Sandra, and Gerry was only a round decade her senior. It was just that Gerry seemed to have come from another century, and Brian from another planet.

"Sandra?" Jack asked, and she snapped to attention to find them all regarding her expectantly. "Does seven work?"

"Seven, yeah." She smiled briefly and turned back to her computer, effectively dismissing them.

Perhaps more important than her actual age was the fact that Sandra had felt quite content with her life for the past several years. She loved her job, liked her flat, even – usually – liked being single. She didn't have to shave her legs if she didn't want to or feel ashamed of her secret fondness for _The X Factor_.

So what was different this year? Was this birthday making her so morose just because the number in front was finally changing?

_Vanity, Sandra, you silly cow_, she sneered at herself, reaching for the sandwich, but shrugged the thought off. Nah, it wasn't that.

It was probably just the wretched rain.

Gerry couldn't help but think that although Sandra was laughing as she sipped her wine, her heart wasn't really in it. She seemed – melancholy, somehow. That was unlike her. Irritated, God yes, on a daily basis. Incandescent with rage, at least four times a week. But introspective, quiet, moody – not typical Detective Superintendent Pullman.

It worried him, even as he felt ridiculous for behaving like a mother hen. But she wasn't even really eating her dinner, just pushing it around her plate, which suggested that something was seriously wrong.

She jumped when he put his hand on her arm, but turned to face him and then leaned in at Gerry's gesture so he could speak quietly to her amidst the lively flow of conversation.

"You all right there?"

She looked surprised. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He nodded toward her plate. "You're not even eating your dinner."

Sandra darted a quick glance at Esther before lowering her voice even further to explain. "I don't like lamb," she practically whispered, maybe the first time he'd ever heard Sandra whisper. "It makes me gag."

Gerry's expression was comically horrified. "What are you on about? I've seen you eat it dozens of times –"

But she was adamantly shaking her head. "Oh, the way the Greeks or the Indians do it, fine. But roasted with mint sauce…" She trailed off and actually shivered.

"Bloody hell, girl. You're a disgrace to your country."

Sandra offered a small smile, and Gerry grabbed the bottle and poured her some more wine. "You're sure that's all it is?" he persisted. "The lamb?"

He was surprised when she turned her arm under his touch to squeeze his hand. "I'm perfectly fine," she reassured him.

But her smile didn't reach her eyes.

That had been Tuesday. Sandra was typing an email when Gerry entered her office at 5:12 Thursday evening.

"Home time, guv'nor," he said. "Does 8:00 still work?"

She glanced away from the screen. "We could just go now, if you'd rather."

He shook his head. "Nah. Our booking's for eight." His gaze ran lightly over her from head to toe. "Anyway, you have to go home and change first."

Sandra frowned. "Into _what_, exactly?" she asked sharply.

Gerry looked entirely too relaxed. "Don't fuss – you don't need to bring out the ermine and pearls, just some nice slacks or a skirt. Not jeans," he said pointedly.

"Are you going to tell me where we're actually going?" she questioned, already knowing the answer.

"Now, what would be the fun of that?" He grinned cheekily. "I'll pick you up at 7:30, if you can stand to ride in my 'pile of shit.'"

As it turned out, Sandra appeared in a casual deep blue dress that set off her eyes, her grey leather jacket, black tights, and black boots. "Will I do?" she asked sarcastically, flinging herself into the passenger seat before Gerry even had the chance to get out and play the gentleman.

He chuckled. "Always, Sandra, as you know. But you look lovely, yeah."

The Stag was now wending its way toward central London. Sandra watched the streetlights whizz past the rain-glazed window and mentally gave herself a hard shake. _Snap _out_ of this, whatever it is_, she ordered herself.

Aloud she said, "Christ, I'm sick of rain."

He glanced over at her. "You should go on holiday. Somewhere warm and sunny."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug, and Gerry let her go back to gazing out the window in peace.

She was quiet until he found a metered space just off Charlotte Street. "No use paying out the nose for valet," he reasoned cheerfully. "Come on, then."

"Gerry?" she murmured inquisitively as he piloted them a few blocks south. Was there still some dive around here that had eluded the grossly inflated real estate prices of this flourishing restaurant row?

When he said "Here we are" and ushered her into the sleek glass and chrome door of a Michelin-starred Indian restaurant known for its incredible food, sumptuous décor, and outlandish prices, Sandra felt sure Gerry was taking the piss. She was so sure, in fact, that when he gave his name to the hostess, she muttered a very we-are-not-amused "Hah bloody hah."

Imagine her astonishment when the young woman merely smiled, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, and said, "Yes, sir, your table is ready. If you'll follow me."

Sandra trailed Gerry through the dimly lit restaurant, feeling as bewildered as a lost puppy, and mechanically seated herself on a velvet ottoman drawn up to an antique wooden table with rich gold inlay. After they had been presented with menus and left to their own devices, Sandra's gaze roved over what she could see of the dining room, which was as ornate and orientalist as Edward Said's worst nightmare. Then her wide blue eyes fixed unrelentingly upon her dinner companion.

"Gerry," she hissed, "what are you playing at? This is _not_ your sort of place."

His lips quirked. The former detective sergeant was clearly enjoying himself. "No, but it's yours, and it's your birthday," he pointed out reasonably.

If possible, her eyes widened further, giving her a bit of the look of a very astonished fish. "Do you realize what the _prices_ are like?" she continued in the same serpentine hiss, her fingers clutching the table's edge in a white-knuckled death grip.

Suddenly an awful thought occurred to her. "I'm not paying!" she exclaimed, those eyes glinting dangerously.

"Sandra!" He looked simultaneously amused and genuinely affronted. "I'm not a total plank, okay? When I invite a woman to dinner, I usually don't expect her to bring a wad of dosh."

An unobtrusive waiter filled their water glasses and took a drink order while the reality of the situation sank in. "You've brought me here for my birthday," Sandra clarified. "And you realise that they serve exorbitantly priced Indian food."

"One point to the bird in blue."

"Gerry, that's really, really –" Sweet, she wanted to say. Thoughtful. "Odd," she finished, and laughed. "We did already celebrate my birthday on my actual birthday."

"Yeah, by eating food you didn't even bloody eat," he retorted. "Besides, this birthday's a big 'un, innit? In my book that deserves at least two celebrations."

Her expression instantly told Gerry he'd taken the wrong tack, but instead of sympathy, his lip curled in disgust. "Oh, come on, not you an' all?"

Sandra frowned while the waiter filled their glasses with wine and deposited the bottle on the table. "No," she snapped defensively, her grumpiest expression in place.

Fine. He could out-grump her any day. "Oh, so that's not why you've been carrying your own personal black cloud around with you all week?"

"If you haven't noticed, Gerry, the entire city has been under a black cloud all week." She paused, sipping her wine. "So I'm fifty. Big sodding deal." Christ, it was the first time she'd said it. Fifty. Half a century. More than half her life.

Gerry wished he could hold up a mirror and show her the expression on her face. "Yeah, very convincing. Maybe you could quit the force and go on the stage."

Sandra huffed out a sigh and crossed her arms. "Oh, shut it."

"Vanity, all is vanity," Gerry declaimed, and Sandra would have dumped her wine in his lap if it hadn't been so expensive.

"It isn't that, you tosser." A more generous mouthful of the wine helped the words go down more easily. "It's just – Christ, fifty. And _here_ I am."

"Oi, I'm starting to feel offended."

"You know I don't mean that." She broke off and sighed again, vaguely gazing at some point over his left shoulder.

They didn't really have the sort of relationship in which you pushed the other person to reveal his or her Deeper Feelings to you. Gerry briefly wondered whether Jack should be having this conversation with the gov; but Jack wasn't here, and he was.

"You work harder than any other governor I've ever had," he said quietly, with unusual gravity. "There'd be no UCOS without you."

"Maybe there'd be no me without UCOS." She idly moved her wine glass, resting her elbows on the edge of the table, then looked up and offered a small, self-deprecating smile. "Isn't that what you've been telling me for years?"

"When has it ever mattered what I say?" he riposted. "You've picked a lousy time to start listening to _me_."

"I listen once in a while. Even to you." She drank some more of the rich wine, and Gerry wished the waiter would come back and take their dinner order. He wasn't sure his back was up to the task of carrying Sandra back to the Stag. "It's not the job," she said much more firmly, meeting his eyes. "And it's not – I never wanted the husband and the kids and all that. I thought I did, yonks ago when I was very young; but eventually I realised it was just what I felt like I was meant to want. But—"

She broke off again and mercifully someone did arrive to take their order. Gerry let Sandra do the honours, which seemed to cheer her up a little. Next a server whisked two individual servings of tiny, delicately seasoned vegetable pakoras onto the table, and Gerry watched as Sandra dragged a cauliflower floret through the accompanying bright green chutney before popping it into her mouth.

"Mmm, spicy," she said happily, and he assumed their discussion of her birthday blues was over. He was surprised when she took a drink of her water and then abruptly announced, "Strickland said something to me the other day."

"Lucky you," Gerry muttered working on his own pakora – eggplant, not cauliflower.

Sandra smirked. "They're interviewing for a new head of the murder squad again. Strickland wants me to go up for it."

"What was it he said?" Gerry prodded cautiously.

"He said, 'If you never dance, eventually they stop asking.'"

He took a moment to absorb that. "So you're thinking maybe you'll go for it," he concluded, determined to ignore the sick feeling that had started to spread through his stomach at her words. This time he couldn't blame it on the food.

"No." Sandra's response came without hesitation. "When I made that decision four years ago, I made it for good. I'm still happy to be a bloody idiot."

"Well, what, then?" He helpfully topped up her glass.

"I s'pose it's just that… that it made me take stock. This, where I am, what I'm doing, it's not a step on the path to somewhere else. It's the destination. I mean, I've already arrived, and I didn't even realize I'd bought the ticket." She reached up and rubbed at the centre of her forehead. "Stupid, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it bleedin' well is."

She zeroed in on him, surprised, obviously not having expected him to agree with her. "Oh, thank you very much, Gerry," she said tightly, straightening up and drawing her arms into her sides. "We should really do this more often."

He could see the barricades on the verge of clanging shut, likely not to reopen, so he automatically reached out and laid a hand on her arm. "No, listen," he insisted. "Ten years ago I felt a whole hell of a lot worse than you do now. I'd been sacked, I'd just gotten divorced again, and I had nothing to do but smoke and drink too much and play the dogs."

"And go to the dogs," she offered.

"Yeah, that. So do you imagine I thought I'd be where I am now at sixty?" He lightly stroked her elbow before leaning back. "Stop spending so much time around Jack, Sandra. You 'aven't got one foot in the grave."

"Neither has Jack," she protested automatically, and Gerry shot her a quelling look.

"Yeah, 'e 'as, and 'e 'as done since Mary died. You know that better than anyone."

She let that pass, because she couldn't argue. Jack's expertise wasn't the only, or even the main, reason she'd immediately tapped her former superior to be her deputy.

"I'm not having some sort of mid-life crisis," she snapped, her accompanying glare clearly stating that Sandra Pullman was above the problems of mere mortals. "It's just I can't help thinking maybe there should be – more."

The arrival of their food gave him a few minutes to figure out what to say, so by the time they'd served themselves – Sandra always insisted they share everything, which was something they had in common – he had his sea legs back under him, so to speak.

"I think you should go," he said around a mouthful of mackerel curry.

Her eyes widened. "Where?" she asked after chewing and swallowing her mouthful of dopiaza. "To the murder squad?"

"No." he drew the simple word out to several syllables. "On that holiday you've been toying with the idea of. To India. It's not as if you don't have enough vacation days saved up," he pointed out.

Sandra was fixing him with a very suspicious look as she went to work on the chicken vindaloo. "How the hell did you know about that?" she demanded. "I haven't told anybody."

"I'm psychic," he replied smugly, pleased with himself, and she scowled.

"I hate psychics, Gerry."

He gave in. "The other day when Jack and I were in your office and you seemed so distracted, I saw your computer screen," he admitted. "Goa, hey?"

"Not just Goa. There are so many places I'd like to see: the Himalayan foothills and Mumbai and… Oh, and so many foods I'd like to eat." It was her turn to pour him more wine, and as she did, she smiled – a real smile this time. "And I've always wanted to see Vietnam and Cambodia as well… New Zealand, South Africa…"

"So, there you go. Book some leave time, buy a ticket, and away you go."

"You make it sound so easy," she chuckled, spooning daal onto a generous dollop of rice.

"It is easy. Look, I know you don't trust me any further than you could throw me, but Jack will be around to keep an eye on us, all right?"

He flashed his best rakish grin, but she frowned. "You know that isn't true, don't you?"

Gerry looked alarmed. "Jack won't be around? What do you know that I don't?"

"No, you pillock," she retorted, disgusted. "That I don't trust you. You can't really think I would've kept you around for this long if I didn't."

Gerry was touched, but covered by cracking a joke, as usual. "I thought you kept me around for me cooking skills," he replied lightly, "seeing as you haven't got any."

"How do you know I haven't?" She batted her eyelashes, all innocence. "There's a lot about me you don't know."

Oh, but he'd like to find out.

Gerry gave himself a hard shake, since he valued both his life and all the parts of his anatomy. "Yeah, and if I believe that load of old cobblers, you've got a bridge across the Thames you could sell me too, ay?" He lifted his glass and clinked its rim against hers. "Cheers, gov. Happy birthday to you."

Sandra smiled that brilliant smile that had dazzled Gerry the first time he'd seen it – and, if he was honest (as he was, occasionally), every time since. "Indeed," she agreed. "Happy birthday to me."


	6. The Lamb Shank Redemption

_Greetings, gentle readers! Beware: this week we end on a darker note – But never fear, Sandra, Gerry, and co. will all be back next Thursday._

**6. The Lamb Shank Redemption**

"What do you suppose is up, anyway?" Brian asked in an undertone, as if he'd taken up a career in international espionage.

Sandra lifted one shoulder in response before slipping out of her blue cardigan. Gerry's flat was like an oven. "Maybe we'll find out when Jack gets here."

"Oi, gov, could you c'mere a minute?" Gerry's voice rang out from the next room.

"I can, but why should I?" she returned, shooting Brian a look that said, _I order you lot about, not the other way round. _

"Because there is booze in here," Gerry replied very clearly.

When she appeared in the doorway, he was manoeuvring a large covered roasting pan out of the oven, his hands covered by a pair of shockingly salmon oven mitts. "Now, I know this is the kitchen, but don't be alarmed. I'm not going to ask you to cook anything."

Words were unnecessary; Sandra just narrowed her eyes. _Tosser_, they said.

"There, I know you can work that." He cocked his chin toward the corkscrew on the counter next to a bottle of merlot-malbec blend.

As she efficiently opened the wine, Sandra asked, "What are you making? I thought it was pasta night."

"I'll make pasta another night," he replied, evading the question. "Pour me a glass too, if you don't mind."

The door buzzer went, and Sandra reached for a third glass. "Might as well do one for Jack too."

Sandra knew Brian was opening the door with his customary graciousness when she heard the words "bloody starving" in his pronounced northern accent, and then Jack retorting, "All right, all right, keep your hair on – what you've got left of it."

"You're one to talk," Brian snorted as Sandra emerged holding two glasses of wine, one of which she passed to Jack with a light smile.

"Did you get anything out of Jacobs?"

"Nothing terribly useful, but he knows something."

"Just in time, mate." Gerry placed three steaming dishes on the table. "Herbed carrots," he announced, "garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes, and green peas with shallots."

"Exactly what I was planning to make," Sandra muttered, and Jack and Brian grinned.

Gerry had popped back into the kitchen. "And," his voice preceded him, "the _pièce de résistance_."

Sandra's eyes widened. Oh, God, it wasn't. He hadn't.

But it was, and he had. She was going to kill him.

"Oh, great!" Brian exclaimed.

_Oh, Christ_, Sandra thought.

"More lamb," Brian continued. "Me favourite."

Sandra shot Gerry a dirty look and he smiled beatifically. "With mint sauce," he elaborated.

"Oh, very traditional," Jack commented, neatly tucking himself in at a corner of the table.

"But you've never had it like this before," the chef assured. "You'll fall in love with lamb all over again." He looked pointedly at Sandra, who had seated herself beside Jack and primly placed her napkin in her lap.

She aimed a look of disgust in his direction and reached for the carrots. A week had passed since he'd stunned her with the elaborate post-birthday dinner, but now he was getting his own back by holding her prisoner and torturing her with one of the very few foods she loathed. And she couldn't even express her displeasure, because if Brian found out she couldn't stomach lamb, he'd be hurt, and Esther would be mortified.

"You know, Gerry," Brian began once everyone had been served, "we couldn't help but notice that you've been behaving a bit… strangely the last coupla days."

"And coming from him that means something," Sandra couldn't resist adding, but she grinned at Brian as she said it, and he stopped wolfing down peas long enough to smile back.

"Are you going to tell us or make us guess?" Jack cut in flatly between bites.

"Yeah, okay." Gerry dropped his fork and knife to his plate with a clatter. "My weekly Sunday dinner with the girls was – eventful."

Sandra arched an eyebrow. "Everything all right?"

Gerry's expression was positively woebegone. "It's Caitlin."

"What's she done? Is she ill?" Brian asked.

"Worse."

"Pregnant," Jack hazarded.

"Nicked?" Sandra suggested. "Voting Lib-Dem?"

"Oh, shut it. She's decided to go and get herself engaged."

The other three exchanged glances.

"I reckon you don't want our congratulations," Sandra concluded, moving the hunk of lamb Gerry had stuck her with from one side of her plate to the other.

"What's so bad about that?" Brian questioned. "You were all up in arms when Paula did it the other way round."

"Do you not like the bloke?" Jack asked reasonably.

Gerry shrugged. "He's all right, I suppose. Seems like a good kid enough."

"So what's the problem?" This from Brian.

"That she's 23, innit?" Gerry snapped, taking a moody slug of his wine. "Practically a baby. What business has she got gettin' married?"

"23 is old enough to make rational decisions," Jack suggested mildly. "How long has she been seeing the boy?"

"Jacob." Gerry sneered the name. "Three years or so. They met at university."

Sandra began to laugh helplessly. "Oh, Gerry," she chortled, covering her mouth.

"I fail to see what's so funny," he replied, very much on his dignity.

"You're such a dad." She cleared her throat to regain her composure and smiled. "It's sweet, really."

"I don't care if she wants to get married," Gerry insisted. "I just don't understand the bleedin' hurry. Why can't she just wait a few years and have a think? Her sisters are in no rush."

"Just because marriage didn't work for you –" Jack began.

"Repeatedly," Brian interjected, and he and Sandra laughed.

"Oh, yeah, let's all take the piss out of Gerry, as usual." He got up from the table. "I'm going for a fag." He glanced down at Sandra's plate. "Eat your lamb."

Jack, Brian, and Sandra were silent until the front door had closed behind Gerry, who obviously didn't normally leave his own flat when he fancied a cigarette.

"He's really upset," Brian commented, helping himself to a huge slice of meat. Sandra cringed and looked down at the unappealing lump on her own plate.

"He'll get over it," she said, resolutely squaring her shoulders for a bite of the lamb. "He won't have much of a choice."

"He's just doing the over-protective father bit," Jack agreed.

Sandra chewed slowly. As lamb went, this wasn't terrible. It wasn't rangy or gamey, and the mint sauce wasn't as vile as she had remembered.

Gerry didn't return. The remaining three were quiet for a few minutes, and then transitioned to a desultory discussion of their current case, which was neither terribly intriguing nor moving along very rapidly. Sandra manfully ate her entire portion of lamb.

Eventually Jack stood up and touched Brian's shoulder. "Let's see to the washing up."

Sandra sighed. She knew what that meant. "Why me?" she squawked in protest, and sighed when neither man answered. "Yeah, fine. I'll go talk to him," she grumbled.

As her colleagues cleared the table, she snagged her pale blue sweater, refilled her wine glass and Gerry's, and carried both outside.

He was a few yards away, his back to the door, the ember of his cigarette glowing red in the darkness. Sandra walked over and stood near him.

"This is the smoking section," he growled.

"Fine, then." She shoved his wine glass at him and held her now-empty hand out, palm up. "Give me one."

He gave her an odd, disgruntled look before reluctantly holding out the pack and the lighter. She took one, lit it, and inhaled deeply, feeling Gerry's eyes on her.

"Drew the short straw, did you?" he conjectured after a few minutes of silence.

She offered a one-shouldered shrug. "Washing up isn't much of a treat either."

"You think I'm being a complete twat."

Sandra smothered a smile. "I think you're being a dad, Gerry."

"Caitlin's so young. Jacob's so bloody young. What if he cocks things up as badly as I did?"

_Ah, here we go_, thought Sandra, but she kept silent, watching their smoke drift up toward the lowering sky. Gerry stubbed his cigarette out. "I know I have to let them," he said. "Make their own mistakes an' all. So don't say it."

She didn't, for once.

"It's just, you know –" He braced one hand on his hip and ran the other through his thinning hair. "She's the baby. They're all grown up, all my little girls."

Sandra's hair shimmered in the low light as she shook her head. "They'll always be your little girls," she reassured, and Gerry couldn't help but think of Sandra as a little towheaded child, and of her father, the man who had been kind and brave and cowardly and flawed. Human.

The man who had abandoned her.

Gerry might have cocked up, but he'd never abandon his daughters. Hell, he'd never even abandoned his ex-wives.

He wouldn't abandon Sandra either.

"You're a good father, Gerry," she murmured, and he thought her tone was wistful.

Gerry considered that for several seconds, and then wheeled on her. "Sandra –" He stopped, totally unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to ask. She waited expectantly, slowly blinking once. "You don't think of me as some sort of – of father figure, do you?"

_Say no. Please, please, please say no_.

He didn't have time to think about why he so intensely wanted a negative response before she exclaimed, "_What?_ Christ, no! That's ridiculous!"

He wasn't sure whether she looked more disgusted or offended, and he was pretty sure he should feel embarrassed, but instead he was just massively, immensely relieved. "You're right," he babbled, "Course you don't. That would be bloody silly. I'm far too young to be your father. More an older brother, like."

But she was too busy glaring daggers at him to notice his flustered state. "Is that what you think?" she spat. "Poor, pathetic Sandra, happy bossing the UCOS not-so-golden oldies because she has unresolved daddy issues?"

"Do you?" _Oh, shut _up_, Gerald. She's going to rip your tongue out and use it to make salami._

"If I do, they don't have anything to do with _you_," she snarled, those blue eyes alive with fire.

Beautiful. Jesus, she was beautiful. It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed before; he just didn't let himself think about it.

_Don't think about it now_, he schooled himself firmly. _And don't think about the fact that if she did think of you as a father figure, that would almost make some of your recent thoughts incestuous._

Suddenly she laughed hollowly. "I think I have enough fathers, don't you?"

_Jack._ Jack, who in some ways treated Sandra like a daughter, and sometimes seemed as incapable as her deceased parent of giving her the paternal love she still seemed to crave.

Gerry actually felt like the older man was standing there between them until Sandra abruptly asked, "Have they set a date yet?"

What? Oh, yeah. Wedding. The reason he was out here, not just so he could ogle the gov in the half-light cast by the street lamps.

"Yeah. Nineteenth December."

Her eyes widened. "Christ, that's not even six weeks away!"

"Caitlin wants a Christmas wedding." Gerry's tone told Sandra what he thought of that.

"I suppose that's the kind of thing you find romantic when you're 23," she mused.

"I suppose. I don't remember being 23."

They smiled slightly at one another, and Gerry tipped another fag out of the pack. On second thought he held the others out to Sandra, and after hesitating, she took one. She leaned in so he could light it for her, and as the lighter flickered between them, she grinned. "Don't tell the other two."

"Mum's the word." Gerry leaned up against the rough bricks, and Sandra did the same, just a few inches away, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body through the cold, clear night.

"You're not cold?" She had her sweater wrapped around her shoulders, but her arms were bare.

"It's like a furnace in there."

Silence stretched out again between them, not strained but comfortable, even peaceful.

"Did you like the lamb?"

She wrinkled her nose. "It wasn't terrible," she admitted, "but next week I'm definitely choosing."

"Yeah, all right, I'm a fair man."

A strand of hair had fallen into her eyes, and he wanted to reach out and brush it back. He wanted an excuse to touch her, to feel her warm, smooth skin. What would she do if he did? Would she slap his hand away as if he were a naughty schoolboy and send him straight to the headmistress's office?

Those blue eyes were trained full on him, all traces of levity gone and her expression completely inscrutable. Gerry realized his heart had kicked up its pace.

They had this unspoken agreement between them that they'd spend every Thursday evening together. That was almost like a date, right?

What would she do if he kissed her? It would be insane, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be worth it – even if she slapped him, or worse, for his trouble.

The door opened behind them and light spilled out into the darkness. "Sandra?" Jack asked, squinting. "This is the third time your mobile's gone in fifteen minutes." He handed it to her, and she fumbled to answer in time.

"Sandra Pullman."

Jack hovered in the doorway, and Gerry waited awkwardly, feeling as if he'd been caught committing some sort of crime, not really listening to Sandra's end of the conversation. Vaguely he heard her saying, "Yes, I understand. Of course. I'll be there right away – twenty minutes."

When she turned back toward them, Gerry could see even in the dim light that she had gone unnaturally pale. "Everything okay?" he asked.

She shook her head very slowly. "No," she said quietly. "No." Her eyes sought Jack's, and then Gerry's. "It's my mother. She's had another stroke."


	7. Anatomy of a Wedding

**VII. Interlude: Anatomy of a Wedding**

Emily heard her father's voice long before she made it to the door of the UCOS office – no huge feat, as he was positively bellowing into his mobile.

"She's _my_ bleedin' daughter, so _I_ am paying for it, full stop. I _don't_ want any of that _wanker's_ money!"

From the doorway Emily watched Gerry flip his phone closed with such force that the plastic threatened to shear into two useless hunks. Surely it would've been much more satisfying if he'd had a receiver to slam down.

Sandra's voice rang out from her office. "Speak up, will you? I don't think they heard you on the eighth floor."

He rolled his eyes and transferred his attention to Emily, who offered a sympathetic half-smile as she asked, "What's up?"

"It's bloody Jayne, innit? She and that husband of hers." He stood up and reached for his jacket. "That prat wants us to split the cost of Caitlin's wedding three ways."

"I think that's a really nice gesture," Emily replied, failing to see what had the former D.S. in such a vile mood. In the very unlikely event that she ever married again, she'd have a simple little civil ceremony. On her first venture the debt had outlasted the sodding marriage.

"It's well out of order, is what it is," Gerry retorted sharply. "She's not Jonathan's daughter – he's only known her for three years! Like I'm too much of a louse to stump up for my own kid's wedding?" He shook his head doggedly. "I told Jayne in no uncertain terms to let him know where he can shove his three equal parts."

Sandra passed through the doorway of her office en route to the coffee machine. "It must be a sign of the apocalypse," she said smugly, refilling her purple mug. "Gerry Standing arguing his God-given right to _pay_ for something."

Gerry shot his governor a surly look, but Emily smiled softly and asked, "How's your mum, Sandra?"

Sandra's answering smile was very brief. Emily didn't miss the shadows of fatigue around the other woman's bright blue eyes. "She's hanging in – Making a bit of progress. Thanks for asking." She turned back toward her office. "Get out of here, Gerry. I already have a headache and I'm tired of listening to you shout," she tossed out.

"Good night, guv'nor."

"Bye, Sandra," Emily added, and Sandra looked up and fluttered her fingers from behind the open blinds of her sanctum sanctorum.

"Is she all right?" Emily asked in a low voice as she and her father walked side by side down the corridor to the elevator.

He shrugged, focusing on the number panel above the doors. "You know Sandra. She says she's fine."

Over souvlaki and stuffed grape leaves last Thursday, Gerry had coaxed his boss into telling him a bit more about her mother's condition. The second stroke had left the right side of Grace's body completely paralysed, although her ability to speak had begun to improve slightly. More worrisome was the fact Sandra let slip that her mother was frequently confused, and several times hadn't recognised her daughter.

He'd tried asking Sandra how she was doing with all that was happening. She'd suggested that they order baba ganoush. The forced brightness of her tone and tightening of her lips announced more loudly than any words could have done that the subject was a no-thoroughfare.

Shaking thoughts of the gov and her problems from his greying head, Gerry refocused. He had his own problems, and Emily was accompanying him to help solve one of them, he hoped.

Her last effort to get Gerry into a wardrobe befitting the twenty-first century had failed after his appetite for an update had suddenly been sated, but Emily had high hopes that the second time was the charm. Gerry struck her as a fairly rapid learner. (Although, come to think of it, he'd had three goes at wedded bliss before the realisation that he was Not the Marrying Kind had finally struck home.) He might consider fashion slightly more complicated than marriage.

"So you're not looking for a suit for the wedding," Emily clarified as she preceded Gerry into an exclusive men's store in, of all places, the King's Road off Sloane Square.

"Nah, I'll have that tailor-made, won't I?" Gerry replied simply, as if they inhabited a world in which having a suit tailor-made for a wedding was just what everyone did. Emily suppressed a smile. He was such an odd blend of old-world East End Cockney and postmodern cosmopolite. It had taken her a while to figure it out – that he in no way intended about 62% of what he said to be taken seriously – but now, after more than three years, Emily thought she had a handle on the man.

"Right," she accepted with aplomb. "Of course you will. So what is the purpose of this little outing?"

"It's this sodding, shitting party," he spat, and she only blinked.

"It's Jayne's idea of a compromise." Gerry shoved his hands into his pockets and looked for all the world like a truculent child. "The night before the wedding, she and Jonathan insist on throwing some poncy formal cocktail reception." He adopted an insufferably snooty tone, as if in imitation of his most recent ex's spouse. "A garden party in _December_, at some posh pile in Kent." Gerry moved to look at the rack of sport coats nearest him, saying as he did, "You'll be invited, obviously."

The prospect didn't seem as dismal to Emily as it obviously did to him. She genuinely liked Caitlin; Emily didn't know her as well as she'd gotten to know Paula, who was closer in age and truly treated her like a sister, but the youngest of Gerry's daughters had called and emailed several times in the year since she'd finished her degree, and Emily liked her open friendliness and mischievous sense of humour. Paula, Amelia, and Caitlin all knew Emily wasn't Gerry's biological child, because she'd told them, and had told them they could feel free to tell their mothers as well.

It was Caitlin who had pondered for only a moment before replying, "But it doesn't really make a difference, does it?"

"Won't it be cold?" Emily murmured, casting a critical eye around the shop now that she had a better idea of what she was looking for.

Gerry sneered. "Heat lamps."

"Do you like –" Emily began, and then broke off. No, she was here to tell her father what he liked, not to ask him. She selected a pale grey dress shirt and folded it over her arm. "Come over here," she instructed, taking Gerry's arm and leading him toward a rack of sleek, understated jackets in dark colours.

"So that conversation I heard the end of?" she prompted, holding one of the jackets up below Gerry's chin and squinting thoughtfully. No: the shade made him look sallow.

"Was me telling Jayne for the last time that she and _Jonathan_ can have their sodding party, but I'll not take a shilling for the ceremony or the reception."

Emily smothered a smile and handed him a dark grey number. "Here," she said. "It'll go really well with the shirt. Now trousers."

"I have perfectly good trousers," he protested, and she responded with a skeptical look he wondered if she'd picked up from Sandra.

"We're here to get you better ones. How does Caitlin feel about the party?"

"Ah, you know, she's all excited. She had me on the phone last night, bangin' on about – what do you call 'em? Fairy lights?" Emily nodded. "Poor kid thinks she's stepping into some kind of a fairy tale."

Gerry sighed deeply, and as Emily and her father looked for his size, she considered the real origin of his extreme antipathy. The major problem wasn't the party; neither was it the wedding. It was the marriage. Gerry definitely did not want his youngest daughter married at 23.

He'd said as much over Sunday lunch, and started a row with Caitlin, which had started a row with Jayne, and then, in an inevitable chain reaction, a row between Caitlin and Jayne when Jayne had said that she, too, thought Caitlin and Jacob were young to be getting married, but that Jake was a nice lad and, if this was what Caitlin wanted, they should all support her.

"I'm perfectly old enough to make rational, intelligent decisions. Some marriages do work out, you know," Caitlin had snapped. "Just because none of yours did. I wouldn't be marrying Jacob if I thought he'd be the kind of husband _Dad_ was."

That had seemed to deflate Gerry's anger. "Good," he'd said hollowly. "Smart girl. Who wants dessert?"

Amelia had seized the gap in conversation to begin chattering cheerfully about bridesmaids' dresses, and Alison had turned to Emily and asked the eldest girl if she was "seeing anyone special." Finding herself a member of a large family did, Emily thought, have its drawbacks from time to time.

Since she'd remarried, Jayne did still attend the weekly lunches at Gerry's, but about once a month rather than on a weekly basis. She hadn't missed one since Caitlin had announced her engagement, though.

And there was the problem Gerry had specifically with the proposed party, Emily thought as she pushed him off toward the changing rooms. Gerry seemed to loathe Jonathan, whom Emily had met only a few times. Jon was the anti-Gerry: he worked in the City, had been to university, spoke pure Received Pronunciation, had gobs of money. He talked golf and squash and sailing and was altogether rather too what-say-old-boy for Emily's taste, but not, evidently, for Jayne's.

Ay, there was the rub.

Emily had wondered more than a few times about the exact nature of Gerry's feelings for his third wife. From something he had let slip, Emily knew their, er, relationship had continued long after their marriage had ended, apparently until Jayne had decided to marry the broker. Caitlin even claimed that Gerry, in a supreme act of desperation, had suggested Jayne remarry him instead. (As Emily recalled, at the time Caitlin had had a few, and had been giggling hysterically at the horrible thought of her parents getting back together.)

It had been a long time since Gerry had had anything like a real romantic relationship. He'd never admit it, but if he was still holding a torch for Jayne, that would explain a lot.

_A lot_, she reflected, as Gerry emerged from the changing room, clowning as he modeled for Emily.

"Am I the dog's bollocks, or what?" he asked cheerfully, and Emily laughed, wondering what the posh, tight-arsed clerk was making of Gerry Standing.

"You look great," she replied sincerely. "We'll get you a light blue tie to really set off your eyes." The crisp shirt also revealed something Emily had only half-noticed before: her father's paunch had shrunk noticeably. "You've lost weight, too," she commented.

He shrugged, seemingly carefree, as he gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror. "It's all the time I spend surrounded by you women and all your estrogen, innit? With everyone else dieting for the big day, it rubbed off on me."

"You're not serious."

"Nah," he replied nonchalantly, turning back to her. "I just cut back on the pints, that's all. Somebody's gotta be able to help the gov when she needs to chase down a suspect, and it's a cinch it won't be Jack or Brian."

That was all well and good, but Emily wasn't so sure she was buying. It was no secret that Gerry reveled in being the youngest of the UCOS "boys," but she saw her father being motivated more easily by vanity than by the desire to keep fit.

"Then you should quit the fags," she suggested, testing her theory.

Gerry brought his hands to his cheeks and formed his mouth into a perfect _O_ of mock horror. "What, and gain two stone?" He winked at her. "If you think these will do –" He gestured toward the clothes he wore – "what say we get out of here and go down the pub? These Sloaney twats are getting to be a bit too much for your dear old dad. I'll buy you a drink in my honour."

Over a couple of pints a piece, not to mention burgers and chips, Emily casually asked, "So you're taking a date to this party, I presume?"

Gerry actually winced. "I could do, if I had one. You got any friends lookin' for a good time with a charming, sophisticated older man?"

She scrunched her nose up. "Oh, come off it. Don't tell me the original Cockney Don Juan, the great East End Lothario, can't find some unsuspecting female to press into service for the evening."

"Oddly, I haven't had to bolt the door lately to keep the birds from stormin' me flat," he replied, capping the sentence with a long drink.

"Please. You could find a date if you really wanted to." Emily polished off a chip, mentally diagnosing the problem. It wasn't that Gerry couldn't get a date, but that he couldn't get the one he wanted, because she was married to someone else.

"Jesus, Em, are you trying to make an old man weep?" Gerry pushed his plate away. "As it happens, I don't particularly fancy the idea of taking some stranger to my daughter's wedding party."

Emily was good at thinking on her feet. You had to be, if you were a copper – unless you were content to be a piss-poor one. "So don't take a stranger," she said simply.

He gave her a look of grim dismay. "What, then, you're suggesting I escort Linda or Alison in that capacity?"

"Don't be daft." For a bright man, Gerry could be infuriatingly dense. "Don't you have any single female friends between the ages of, say, forty-five and dead?" She held up her hand before he could speak. "Preferably someone you _haven't_ shagged?"

He looked stymied. Obviously she was going to have to get out the sledgehammer and cosh him over the head with it. "Someone from _work_, for instance?"

Gerry looked down at his plate. Of course, she reflected, he'd known exactly what – or rather whom – she was getting at. "I, ah, don't know if that would be appropriate."

Emily sniffed in derision. "Since when have you cared about what was appropriate?"

"Yeah, but she's my guv'nor," he replied as if that closed the subject.

Emily rolled her eyes. "And your friend, presumably. She'd have to be, to put up with you all this time. What harm could it possibly do?"

He was still eyeing his plate as if it were utterly fascinating. "Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "We'll see."

* * *

Sandra was eating a bacon sandwich at her desk when her office line rang. She didn't allow herself these delicious, greasy treats on a daily basis, as she'd once done, but lately, with all the hospital hours she'd been logging, not to mention this deadlocked investigation, she felt like she deserved something to look forward to in the mornings. She had to have some reason to get out of bed; bacon would do.

"Pullman," she mumbled with her mouth full, hoping not to hear Strickland's voice on the line.

"Detective Superintendent, this is D.I. Emily Driscoll."

The studied formality told Sandra that the other woman was already upstairs at her desk. In all other circumstances, Sandra had made a strict rule that they were simply Emily and Sandra, and rank didn't enter into it.

She washed down the bread and bacon with a mouthful of milky tea. "What's up, Emily?"

When the younger woman spoke again, her voice was much lower. "It's not professional," she said barely above a whisper. "It's about my dad. I think he could use some moral support. So could I, actually."

* * *

The décor of the Chinese restaurant in Chiswick hadn't altered much in eight years, but fortunately Sandra's notoriety had faded. Unmolested, she was mixing a sweet and spicy compound of duck sauce and hot mustard for her eggroll when Gerry began, "So Jayne and her husband have decided to throw Caitlin and Jacob a party."

The way he said it, anyone would think Gerry had announced that his daughter's mother and step-father had decided to throw her a funeral.

"Mmhmmm," Sandra murmured, as if she knew nothing about it.

"They want to do something since I won't let them pay for the wedding or the reception."

She chewed and swallowed. "That's nice," she said so blandly that he cast her an odd look through the steam of her ooh-long tea.

Gerry propped his elbows on the edge of the table, his gold watch glinting in the muted light. "Nice, if you like poxy formal affairs overrun by a gang of Oxbridge twats with more money than brains, which I don't happen to do."

"It's a party, Gerry," Sandra pointed out drily, sipping the earthy tea. "Not the end of the world. I'm sure if you had it your way you'd just take Caitlin down for a night at the dog track."

"You forget that I'm a reformed man," he protested loftily, his spoon pausing between his bowl of hot and sour soup and his mouth. "No longer a gambler."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Right. That's why I'm seriously considering calling IT down to have access to all online gaming sites blocked on your computer."

"Aw, come off – It's just a bit of poker."

"Oh, so you don't play for money?" she retorted archly.

"Okay, yeah, but – Sandra, I don't care about the poker, all right?" He looked unusually earnest. "Look, I won't play any more."

"And Brian will have just one more drink." She turned her uncomfortably direct gaze on him.

"No, no, no, no, no." Gerry ran his fingers through his hair. "It's not like that. I know it was stupid to get involved, but it wasn't because I missed the gambling."

She folded her arms. "So what was it, then?" she demanded. "Why don't you explain it to me, Gerald?"

_Shit._ He felt the tips of his ears turning pink. But this was Sandra; there was no way he could fob her off with some lame excuse. Might as well just get it over with.

"I did it to meet a new group of women, all right? Things have… dried up recently. My little black book isn't what it used to be. So I thought, what am I good at? Poker." Gerry confided all of this as quickly as possible to his soup bowl. Silence. After several seconds ticked by, he peered up cautiously, like a schoolboy dreading his teacher's wrath. Sandra was staring at him, her expression – what, exactly?

"Say something," Gerry muttered.

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. "You," she said slowly and clearly, "are an _idiot_."

Well, he'd asked for it, quite literally.

"You – a compulsive gambler – took up internet gambling as a hobby so you could meet women," she summarized in a very controlled voice. The way she was holding her mouth made her prominent cheekbones look as sharp as new glaciers; fitting, as her overall demeanor was currently about as warm and cuddly.

"It was that or one of those online dating sites. I still have a shred of pride." Or he had done until about three minutes ago, when he'd been forced to humiliate himself in front of the very person he _least_ wanted to know about the pathetic state of his love life.

"You," she reiterated, "are a complete moron."

Oh, wait – he'd only thought he was totally humiliated before. _Now_ he was totally humiliated.

The touch of two of her fingers on his wrist startled Gerry into looking up to meet Sandra's eyes. "Don't do that again," she said simply and intensely, with much less disgust than he'd anticipated. In fact, the look in her eyes was almost pleading.

"I won't." She had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. "Sandra, I won't," he promised.

She leaned back and retrieved the rest of her rapidly cooling eggroll. "I _will_ kill you if you do," she said. "Just so we're clear."

"As crystal. But I'd really appreciate it if you didn't –"

"I won't tell Jack and Brian," she cut in as a waiter brought their entrees to the table: crispy chili chicken for her; mushu pork for him.

This conversation wasn't exactly going the way he had planned; but on the other hand, there was seemingly nowhere to go from complete humiliation but up.

"This party of Jayne's – I can't invite any of my mates, you know, but I can take a date. So I wondered if you'd come along and keep me from looking like Billy No-Mates."

She cocked her head, and that wayward strand of hair tumbled into her eyes. "Free-flowing champagne? Fancy finger foods?" she hazarded.

Gerry nodded. "Rivers of champagne, mountains of food. Jonathan's doing it to impress his friends in the City, after all."

"All right, then." She popped a morsel of chicken into her mouth. "When is it?"

He blinked. That was it? It seemed too easy. He'd known Sandra for years, and one thing she never did was make things easy. Still, he knew better than to look a gift horse, etc., especially when the gift horse was smiling slightly and had near-perfect, even teeth.

He gave her the details, and she nodded, turning her attention to the food and snagging a bite of his pork. "Good choice," she said.

"Yeah, this is always good," Gerry agreed.

"No, I meant me, you pillock." Sandra's eyes sparkled. "I look a hell of a lot better than Jack does in a cocktail dress."


	8. The Sweet Smell of Excess

_Hello, delightful readers! Thanks, as always, for your reviews, and I've only just realized one can reply (oops). Please don't think I'm, as Sandra might say, a complete tosser if I haven't responded to yours. You don't have any idea how much it thrills me to know that someone is actually reading the product of my [deranged] imagination._

_Also, I've decided to pick up the pace with the posting a bit, since the whole thing is finished – so you never know when it might be Thursday. Or, in this case, Friday._

**8. The Sweet Smell of Excess**

"Hullo, Gerry, old boy." The greeting forcibly reminded Gerry that it wasn't just ill will or a vivid imagination: Jayne's husband really did speak like a badly drawn caricature of a Noel Coward-era toff. "What's this, no date?"

_That's it, you tosser, go straight for the jugular_. "What, me without female companionship? No, you know me better than that, Jon," Gerry replied heartily, trying not to grit his teeth. "Jayne, you look lovely, as always." He leaned down to kiss the petite blonde on the cheek. "Where's Caitlin?"

"She and Jacob were dancing a few minutes ago." She patted the lapel of her ex-husband's sleek new jacket. "You look very nice. Where _is_ your date?"

"She'll be along. Busy woman, you know." Jayne shook her head and gave Gerry that half-chastising, half-admiring "You always were a bit of a lad" smile. "I'll just go say hello to Paula and Gerry," he said.

He breathed a subtle sigh of relief as he made a beeline for his daughter and grandson, who were engaging in an awkward box-step to the strains of the string quartet. Gerry released his mother's hands and leaped onto his grandfather with a shout of joy, as if it had been five years rather than five days since they'd seen one another.

"Hi, Dad." Paula slipped under Gerry's arm, pressing the top of her silky head against his neck. "Don't you look handsome."

"All dressed up for some bird," Amelia put in cheekily, popping up at her father's other elbow. "Where's the flavour of the month?"

"Cheeky little beggar," he retorted, playfully cuffing her. "And you've got chocolate on your face like a bleedin' six-year-old instead of a 26-year-old."

Amelia only laughed. "There's a chocolate fountain over there," she said to her nephew. "Come see it with Auntie Amy."

"Don't let him make himself sick," Paula called, and then shrugged as she watched her sister and her son scamper off through the crowd of well-dressed revelers. "I don't know why I bother. She's as bad as he is."

"Oh, well, a few sweets won't hurt the boy. I ate candy floss by the yard when I was his age." Gerry accepted two glasses of champagne from a passing server and handed one to his daughter. "Cheers," he said, clinking the rims together.

"You didn't really come alone, did you?"

Gerry looked at Paula, all grown up and radiantly beautiful in her simple black dress, her hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. "Me, what about you? I'm an old geezer, but you ought to have the blokes lining up round the block to take you out. Where's your date?"

Paula only smiled. "He's over there with Amelia, making a little pig of himself at the chocolate fountain." She trained her gaze on the carriage house, which had been converted into a cloakroom for the evening, and through which arriving guests were being funneled out onto the cobblestone path to the sprawling garden overlooked by the imposing eighteenth-century house. Torches burned in tall iron holders flanking the gates, and overhead thousands of tiny white lights twinkled in the canopy of trees. Paula nudged her father's arm. "And there's your date, if I'm not mistaken."

It wasn't until he felt the rush of relief that Gerry even realised he'd half feared she wouldn't turn up.

Sandra stood on the cobblestone path, perfectly poised, her head turning slowly as she took in the scene. From this distance her dress, with its plunging neckline and softly floating skirt, looked black, but it seemed to shimmer under the lights as she moved. Her very high heels – perhaps the ones she'd used to great effect on their murderous chef? – added a pronounced sway to her walk as she began to move forward.

Gerry suddenly became aware that Paula was watching him watch Sandra, and when he turned back to his daughter she wore a small, secretive smile.

"What?" he demanded.

Her smile widened. "Nothing. Take Sandra some champagne and I'll go see if my son has exploded."

Sandra's smile as she gratefully accepted said champagne was blinding. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was murder. Cheers." Her gaze flicked over him as she drank. "Ooh-er," she teased. "I didn't know you even owned a solid-colour tie."

Not black; purple. The dress was a very dark, unusual purple that contrasted subtly with the black velvet wrap draped loosely across her bare arms. "Oi, gov," Gerry complimented appreciatively, "on a scale of one to ten, you're a twelve."

"Thank you, Gerald," she returned loftily, her impish grin rather lowering the tone. "Better than Jack, yeah?"

"Ah, so your date does exist." Jon again, of course, and his tone of extreme surprise grated on Gerry's last, rapidly fraying nerve. What did Jane see in this idiot? "I'm Jonathan Stapleton, and you, evidently, are not a figment of Gerry's imagination. So glad you could join us."

She firmly shook the hand he extended. "Sandra Pullman," she murmured, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

"Have you two known each other long?"

Gerry almost choked on his champers when she casually slipped her arm through his. "Oh, years," Sandra answered in that same low, distracted tone. "There's Caitlin, Gerry. Shall we say hello?"

As they walked away, a relieved Gerry began to draw his arm back, counseling himself not to take his extreme antipathy toward Jonathan out on Sandra. She, however, latched on like a barnacle. "Christ, Gerry, I'll break my ankle. Just wait until we get over there where it's level."

She'd had a long day, driving around greater London with Brian, interviewing parents of teenagers who had disappeared in the autumn of 1999. 6:00 had crept up on them, and as Sandra had bobbed and weaved through rush-hour traffic, she'd instructed a queasy-looking Brian to dial Gerry on her mobile.

"Tell him," she said, "that I'm running late, so I'll meet him there."

"Cryptic," Brian had commented, peering at his boss over his glasses. "Isn't tonight the big do for Caitlin and her fiancé?"

"It is." She switched lanes rapidly, her foot pressing down hard on the accelerator.

"And you're going?" Brian took her silence as an affirmative and barked a gleeful laugh. "You're Gerry's date!"

She shot him a quelling look. "In a manner of speaking. It's sort of a favour to Emily." Brian opened his mouth, but she shook her head before he could speak. "Don't ask."

_Emily_. "Is Emily here yet?" Sandra asked, fairly certain she knew the answer. She disentangled her arm from her companion's as they reached the smooth flagstone.

"Nah, haven't seen her. She said she was bringin' a date, though, and I want to have a butcher's at the bloke."

Sandra smiled broadly. "See if he's good enough for her?"

"He couldn't be."

"Oh, you might be surprised." Her smile turned mysterious as she tipped the champagne flute up to her lips.

Gerry tapped his youngest daughter on the shoulder and she turned away from Jacob to banter with her father. After a few seconds she focused on the woman standing beside Gerry and exclaimed, "Sandra, wow! Lovely to see you. Dad didn't say you were coming. Jake, this is my dad's –" She hesitated for a split second. "Friend, Sandra Pullman."

Sandra made the rounds, greeting all the wives and daughters, and stood chatting with Paula when she caught sight of Emily, whose emerald dress set off her skin and hair to perfection. She glimpsed Sandra and mild relief flashed across her pinched features.

"Hi, everyone." Emily lightly touched the arm of the striking redhead beside her. "This is Felicity. These are my sisters Amelia and Paula, Paula's son Gerry, my dad Gerry, and my dad's friend Sandra. Everyone, Felicity Randall."

The sisters immediately fell into conversation with Felicity, as brimful of chatter as the minor characters in a Jane Austen novel; they had obviously been waiting to meet her. Sandra nodded encouragingly to Emily, whose nervous gaze darted between Gerry and Felicity, anxiously awaiting her father's reaction.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Felicity," he said simply, at his most expansively charming. There was a momentary pause in the conversation as everyone waited for more. It didn't come.

"Let's get a drink," Emily said, and turned away abruptly, Felicity on her heels.

The string quartet had packed up their instruments and been replaced by a deejay (one of Caitlin's few requests), who was spinning a few well-known numbers to appease the older crowd. It was only a matter of time before someone had a few too many and started doing the hustle.

"Dance?" Gerry invited gleefully, and Sandra shrugged.

"If you step on my toes, I'll give you the sack," she warned.

He scoffed. "My dance moves are legendary, I'll have you know."

"That's what scares me."

She let him spin her dizzily around the dance floor for quite a while – her toes incurred no damage, and she had to admit it was a hell of a lot of fun – before she gasped, "My feet are going to bleed, Gerry. Let's sit."

"Why do women wear shoes like that?" Gerry grumped, probably rhetorically, and Sandra only snorted at him.

"You know perfectly well why; you just don't like that they make me taller than you."

Gerry, ever the brave hunter-gatherer, went to the lavish buffet to forage while Sandra rested her aching feet and sipped her second glass of champagne. Her gaze lit idly on a woman's long golden hair. Jayne. Jayne, making her way through the crowd to talk to Gerry. He leaned in closer to hear her over the din of music, conversation, and clinking china, and Sandra watched both of them carefully, revolving what Emily had confided to her. Gerry flirted with every woman he met, herself not excepted, but it had been quite a while since he'd really been involved with anyone. As far as she knew, the last person had been – well, Jayne. And that had ended badly. Twice.

Eight years ago she would've laughed in the face of anyone who'd dared suggest that Gerry – Gerry "Shagging for England" Standing, whom age did not wither nor custom stale – could still be in love with his ex-wife. To all outward appearances, he hadn't even managed to keep that up for the duration of his marriage.

But now… It seemed possible, to say the least. He looked at Jayne with such affection – and longing, perhaps?"

It would explain his extreme dislike of Jonathan Stapleton, although, having now met the man, Sandra had to concede that he did a fair enough job of explaining that himself. He'd ogled her tits like he thought he was paying her a royal compliment.

She must've looked pensive when Gerry returned to the table, because he asked, "All right?" as he placed a plat heaped with all sorts of delicacies before her.

"Fine." She forced her thoughts back to the present and smiled. "Jesus, Gerry, did you leave any for the other guests?" The plate towered with succulent lobster, prawns, delicate stuffed mushrooms, grilled vegetables, airy little puffs of potato – Sandra couldn't even see it all.

"Fortify yourself," he advised. "But save room for dessert. Nights with the Standing clan can be long and… interesting."

"Oh, there's a shock." She smirked. "And you love it." Between bites she looked up at Gerry through her artfully tousled hair. "By the way, I think Emily expected a bit more of a reaction, _Dad_. You might want to talk to her."

Gerry's expression was comically blank. "A reaction," he repeated. "To what?"

Sandra's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. "Ah, to meeting her _girlfriend_, you tosser."

He choked on a prawn.

"You mean you didn't realise?" she hissed, dismayed. "Some bloody copper you are!"

For the second time in recent memory Gerry was turning bright red. "She said she was bringing a date, but I just – She was married. To a bloke," he clarified.

Sandra nodded as if he were a slow toddler. "And now she's involved with a woman. Not everyone is as rampantly heterosexual as you are, you know. Not everyone fits into a neat little box."

He scowled. "I _know_ that. No matter what you seem to think, I am not completely backward, all right? She just never said. She never even hinted she was…" Gerry trailed off, at a loss.

"Shopping round the corner?" Sandra suggested, the smirk back in full force.

"I just didn't even suspect, and – Shit, do you think she thinks I don't care?" Sandra frowned but he ploughed on. "What I mean is, I don't care about _that_, but I care about her being happy an' all, and I care about meeting her girlfriend. Shit," he swore again. "I've got to find her."

He tossed his napkin down and sprang up from the table, but was back in seconds. "You knew." His tone was accusatory.

She merely nodded. "I've known for a while, yeah. I think she wanted someone she could talk to in the Met."

"And you knew she was bringing Felicity tonight. That's why you agreed to come."

"In part," she admitted. Gerry didn't look best pleased, but he stalked away through the crowd rather than pursuing the subject.

He was gone long enough for Sandra to finish all the food on her plate and make a fair start on his. Good thing, she thought, that the fabric of her dress was soft, expanding to cradle her curves rather than slicing her in half at the rib cage.

_Come on, Gerry, I'm dying for a pee_.

Telepathy failed to work, so eventually she abandoned the table and sought the ladies'. The facilities were tucked away in another lushly converted stone building, with a huge lounge area containing full-length mirrors and an enormous vanity. As she washed her hands, Sandra checked her reflection in the mirror. No raccoon eyes, no food in her teeth, and everything else was more or less still in place.

On her way back to the party, she heard low voices emerging from the darkness in murmured conversation. Her step faltered when she heard her own name in the man's voice.

"Right, yeah," rejoined the woman. "Of course I've met her several times over the years."

"You mean he's really giving her one, then?"

Jayne laughed, but rejoined, "That's a bit crass, Jon. Besides, it's _highly_ unlikely. They're colleagues."

"That doesn't stop most people."

"She's his boss, actually."

Stapleton found that amusing. "Doing the old boy a favour, then? That's a relief. Honestly, Jayne, if I thought that git could pull any woman he wanted – I still don't understand what you ever saw in him."

"Gerry can be lovely," Jayne defended quickly. "Caitlin gets her wonderful sense of humour from her father, and he can be… charming." There was a pause. "But yes, I suppose Sandra's come as a favour. They don't really socialise."

Sandra walked away with the sound of Jonathan's irritating laughter in her ears. Her face burned with indignation on Gerry's behalf. No one required the man to like his wife's ex-husband, but ridiculing him at their daughter's engagement party was well out of order. Gerry was right: Stapleton was a loathsome little sod, and obviously not very secure. But Jayne – yes, she'd defended Gerry, but what business did she have giving her husband the details of his relationship to Sandra?

Sandra stalked back to their table, feeling like a mother tigress protecting one of her cubs. No one screwed around with her boys.

Gerry stood as soon as she reappeared. "Oi, there you are. I thought maybe you'd done a runner."

"I wouldn't just disappear." She shook her head as a server offered her yet another glass of champagne. "But I should go. It's gone midnight, and Strickland wants me at 8:30 tomorrow."

He waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, I'll just bet he does."

She rolled her eyes skyward. "To discuss our lack of progress on the Tamsin Neeley case."

"Better you than me." He touched her shoulder. "I'll walk you to your car."

"Things all right with Emily?" Sandra asked, holding onto his arm again as they moved across the spongy grass. Her heels were doing a fine job of aerating the soil.

"Right as rain."

After she had retrieved her long wool jacket and spoken to the valet, Sandra stopped Gerry beside the main gate in the flickering light from the torches. "There's no reason for you to come all the way out."

"All right, then. Good night, Sandra." His eyes sought hers and he grinned. "And thanks."

She smiled back, not a smirk this time, but a real smile. "You're welcome. I had a good time." She caught sight of something or someone behind Gerry and her expression changed, darkened. "I really did," she added fiercely.

He was utterly unprepared for what happened next: Sandra, his governor, leaned in and kissed him smack on the mouth.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, but neither was it a friendly adieu. She swayed on her extremely high heels and just for a second her hands came to rest on his shoulders as she steadied herself. Automatically Gerry caught her waist, helping her regain her balance, his fingertips brushing against the thin fabric of the dress. Her kiss was unsurprisingly firm, as if she dared him to pull away or kiss her back, but before he had time to do either she had stepped away.

"Night," she said in that same fierce tone, her expression unreadable. "See you at the church tomorrow." Sandra strode away rapidly despite the death-defying shoes, leaving Gerry completely dismayed and confused.

When he turned to go back to the party, his eyes met those of Jonathan Stapleton, who stood less than twenty feet away, watching him steadily.


	9. The Subject Was Pierogi

**9. The Subject Was Pierogi**

_Right, then_, thought Sandra as she automatically accepted the glass of slightly-too-warm dry white wine from the impossibly young bartender and handed over a crumpled fiver in return. _Not my imagination_.

Jack and Brian had already commandeered a table, but she stood at the bar, thinking – or more precisely, trying to decide whether or not blind rage was the appropriate response to her current situation.

Caitlin's wedding the previous weekend had been lovely and simple, with the young woman a dream of a cake-topper bride in her sweetheart strapless dress and birdcage veil, and her sisters ranged across the front of the church in sophisticated black with bright pops of colour in their bouquets. Gerry had looked very handsome and every inch the proud papa in his grey morning suit and butter yellow silk tie, and if his voice had trembled a little when the moment came for him to say, "She gives herself, with the support of her mother and me," well, for once his UCOS cohorts wouldn't take the piss. (After all, he furnished them with so many opportunities for ridicule on a daily basis; there was no need to get greedy.)

The reception had been expectedly raucous, with a healthy mix of eager young people and a rather more dubious combination of Gerry's friends from the job, childhood friends from Bermondsey, and scads of assorted others. At a table in a corner, Jack and Sandra had boozed it up while Jack played a game. He called it "How Many of the Guests Have I Nicked?" The count was up to six, if you included one he'd let off with a caution, when they were distracted by the sight of Brian dragging a beet-red Esther into the chicken dance.

Gerry came over to chat when the Lanes returned to the table, bracing one arm on Sandra's chair, one on Jack's, as he leaned in to have a chance of competing with the music. "On top form, Esther. And this one!" He gestures toward Brian. "Next series of _Britain's Got Talent_, eh?"

Gerry had been pushing daughters, ex-wives, and assorted unsuspecting but willing females around the dance floor all afternoon. He was in his element. Sandra noted that he'd danced with Jayne three times. Natural enough, perhaps, as they were celebrating their daughter's wedding. He'd even had a go with Esther, who had laughed and blushed and seemed to be enjoying herself like a shy debutante at a coming-out ball. Gerry had a talent for that, for drawing people out of themselves and making them laugh.

In fact, just about the only female who could move unassisted with whom he hadn't danced was the guv'nor herself. He turned to look at her and she fully expected her turn to have come. The egregiously cheesy "Love Me Tender" was throbbing through the sound system, which would furnish Gerry ample opportunities for clowning, so it seemed appropriate. Instead his eyes slid away to land on Jack. "How 'bout you, mate? You must still have some moves."

Jack's eyes widened in comical horror. "What, with you? You're not my type."

Gerry left them all laughing, and when a slower number started up – it was "You Made Me Love You," and Sandra wondered whether Gerry had bribed the deejay or Caitlin had inherited some of her father's taste in music – Brian and Esther returned to the dance floor, leaving Jack and Sandra alone.

"You know," Sandra commented, her gaze trained on the couple, "they _are_ sweet together. I don't know how she puts up with him, but –"

"Who?" Jack cut in, and Sandra followed his eyes to the pair just beyond their colleague and his wife. "Brian and Esther, or Gerry and Jayne?"

Sandra blinked. "Come on, Jack. This is a nice, slow one. Fancy a whirl?"

She thought at first that he was going to say no, that his mind had been inexorably drawn to memories of dancing with Mary, and that she shouldn't have asked. Then his face broke into a smile, albeit a rather forced one. "Why not?"

The deejay kept up the oldies, and Sandra danced twice with Jack, and then with Brian while Jack and Esther had a go, and then even once with Esther when the men pled fatigue. Encouraged, Emily finally got up the courage to dance with Felicity in front of her family, and Sandra felt herself smiling one of those big, stupid, manic smiles she sometimes couldn't contain.

She caught Gerry watching from off to the side, his gaze trained intently on the dance floor, his arms folded and a slight frown puckering his forehead.

Her smile disappeared. She should go over and kick him in the shins. _Gerry, you reactionary, insensitive, Jurassic prick_, she thought, her eyes narrowing to slits even as she spun Esther into a dramatic turn.

And then realisation dawned.

Gerry wasn't frowning at his daughter and her girlfriend.

He was looking directly at Sandra.

Much to her relief, they'd made a breakthrough on the Tamsin Neeley case early Monday morning. "Jack, Brian," she'd instructed, looping the ends of her thick grey scarf around her neck and shaking the ends of her hair free, "go talk to Rosamund Stanford again. Take the photos of her daughter's body. Show her, and then ask her again to corroborate her husband's movements. Gerry, with me."

"That's a mistake," the former detective sergeant responded immediately.

The look Sandra turned on him lowered the office temperature by several degrees. "What is?"

"I should go interview the mother – with Brian," he specified nonchalantly, glancing down at his fingernails. "Give her the ol' soft touch."

Sandra's eyes flared. "Oh, _excuse_ me. The last time I checked, I was the governor, and therefore the one who gives orders – and your job is to follow them."

"All I'm saying is that my particular skill set will be put to better use with Rosamund Stanford."

"What skills, Gerry? Your legendary powers of pulling? The way women flock to you?" she retorted so acidly that Jack intervened.

"How about I take Gerry with me to re-interview the Stanford woman. I'll terrify her, and Don Juan there can soothe her."

"Fine." Sandra's tone clearly conveyed that she was less than thrilled, but would rather not pursue the matter and risk nuclear holocaust before lunchtime. "Come on, then, Brian. Chop chop."

The case had cracked wide open 48 hours later, and this afternoon – Thursday – they had arrested and charged both Tamsin Neeley's stepfather and his younger brother. Minutes ago Sandra had received word that a distraught Rosamund Stanford, who had crumbled when faced with her husband's role in her daughter's death, would live; she'd chucked herself onto the tracks at Waterloo, but had succeeded only in breaking her arm.

"It's a result, at least," Sandra had said grimly, dropping her mobile into her shoulder bag. "And with that I need a drink. Pub, boys?"

After Brian and Jack had tottered off clutching their tonic water and pint, respectively, as Gerry and Sandra waited for their drinks, she'd said, "Pierogi."

Gerry picked up his pint. "Come again?"

"How do you feel about pierogi and borscht? Polish comfort food." At his blank look, she soldiered manfully on. "It's Thursday, and I don't know about you, but I could use a bit of good cheer this sodding holiday season."

"Oh, so it is." The volume of liquid in his glass was rapidly reduced by a couple of inches. "Can't, gov, I have plans. And to tell you the truth, I never much liked all that Eastern European stuff."

Her eyes narrowed. _Bollocks_, she pronounced mentally. "Fine then, Mr. Cultural Sensitivity. You've just ruled out an entire region of the world, so choose something else. I don't care what we eat, as long as it's hot."

Which her tone certainly was not. Gerry practically expected a crust of ice to form over the surface of his drink. "Plans," he repeated with an air of finality. "I've got 'em." He whipped his cigarettes out of his coat pocket by way of excuse. "Time for a fag." _Or five_.

Sandra robotically sipped her warm wine, more pissed off with Gerry than usual. All week she'd been telling herself that his perpetually foul mood had nothing to do with her; how could it? The idea that his surliness was directed at her was the sort of melodramatic, self-centred fantasy dreamed up by 14-year-old girls. It was her imagination that Gerry had been avoiding her more diligently than he avoided the annual audit.

Except that it wasn't.

_Bollocks_, she thought for the second time in as many minutes, and stalked toward the saner of her boys. And when Brian was included in that twosome, Sandra's vision of her life took on a peculiarly Armageddon-ish tint.

"Where's Gerry?" the aforementioned ex-D.I. asked immediately, and Sandra lifted her shoulders dismissively.

"Outside poisoning himself."

"Well, all I have to say is I hope he gets over this wedding business soon," Brian continued. "So Caitlin's got married. It's not the end of the bloody world. Look at me and Esther, still ticking over after nearly forty years."

"Mary and I were quite happy," Jack put in mildly. "There are always ups and downs, of course."

"Gerry's never realised that he's not the marrying kind," Sandra retorted. "He's extrapolated from personal experience that all marriages are as awful as his were because all husbands are, like him, _complete idiots_."

Jack and Brian exchanged a quick, wary glance before Jack pointedly changed the subject, asking Sandra about her mother's progress or lack thereof.

"She seems to be getting a bit stronger," the superintendent answered, forthcoming as ever. "Is Mark coming home for Christmas, Brian?"

Sandra tried to concentrate on the response, but she was distracted by the slow burn of anger… and curiosity. Usually Gerry's moods were approximately as difficult to decipher as those of a toddler. He was generally fairly content, surly when he was hungry or ran out of fags or encountered forms to fill in, and genuinely wounded only when his sense of honour was insulted. She'd known him well enough for long enough to understand that for Gerry Standing, honour could be distilled to three simple things:

He was, and always had been, a straight copper, no matter who accused him of being bent as a nine-bob note.

He was a good father and grandfather, and took care of his family.

He knew, understood, and appreciated the fairer sex, from newborns to toothless, ancient hags, and would do until he drew his dying breath. Conversely, they appreciated him in equal measure (Sandra being among the occasional inexplicable exceptions.)

She ticked items off her mental list. It had been a good long while since any of their UCOS cases had forced Gerry to air his dirty laundry in public, and he knew that his boss trusted him – implicitly, even. He seemed to be struggling with this new phase of fatherhood that involved father-in-law-hood, but that was no reason for him to single Sandra out as the target of his animosity.

Ditto number three. Gerry's self-professed fabled abilities with women had provided fodder for all three of them to laugh at his expense for nearly a decade. Admittedly Sandra's barbs were usually sharper than those tossed out by either Brian or Jack, but she'd always felt that her gender entitled her. That and her whole "woof woof bang bang" introduction to the man. That was no reason for him to be especially put out with her.

Her eyes widened fractionally. Unless –

No, it was too ridiculous. This was _Gerry_, for Christ's sake.

_Exactly_, another voice interjected, interrupting her mental monologue. _Gerry, who, if he had as much dosh as he has bloody imbecilic pride, would be able to buy and sell the entire Met_. _And you have to admit he's been behaving strangely – more strangely than usual – since Caitlin and Jacob's little engagement fete._

"Bloody hell," she said aloud, interrupting Brian and Jack's talk, and abruptly stood up and walked right out of the pub.

A stiff wind whipped in off the Thames and Sandra immediately wished she'd at least stopped to snag her long wool coat; but Gerry had looked in her direction when the door had banged behind her, and retreating now would spoil the effect entirely. She squared her shoulders and stalked up to him as confidently as if her thin blazer were steel-plated armor.

"Gerry, I've had enough of this," she snapped with no preamble. "So are you going to tell me what the _hell_ is wrong with you, or shall I guess?"

He stubbed his cigarette out – it was so windy that Sandra couldn't imagine how he'd kept it alight as long as he had – and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "I don't know what you're on about."

"Then you're thicker than pig shit." She took two steps toward him, bringing her uncomfortably close. With her in her high-heeled grey leather boots, he had no choice but to look directly into her icy eyes. Gerry had seen Sandra interrogate enough hostile witnesses to recognise the "tough bitch" posture immediately, but that did nothing to put him at ease since she actually was a tough bitch.

Also, he couldn't entirely ignore the niggling suspicion that he was behaving like a pillock.

"Everything was going along swimmingly when I left you playing happy families Friday night, and since then you've been acting like I wrecked you bloody car or – or – shot your dog." The defiant set of her jaw dared him to contradict her or make a joke. "Is this about Jayne?" she demanded when he didn't speak.

He blinked. "Jayne?" he repeated blankly. "Only because she married that stupid ponce."

So Emily had been right. Sandra didn't think this was the time to pause and reflect on Gerry's not-exactly-requited (at least not recently) love for his third wife.

"I agree, he's a ponce." She glared. "And yet, oddly, I fail to see why you're mad at me. Jonathan does bear a passing resemblance to my ex-husband, but you've never even met him."

Gerry's eyes narrowed. "Was he a prat?"

"No, he was a complete wanker, but that's neither here nor there, Gerry. We're not talking about my ex-husband; we're talking about your ex-wife," Sandra pointed out, shouting into the wind to be heard.

"No, we are, because it's always the same sodding story, innit? Smart, beautiful women wind up with men who don't deserve them."

She frowned. "Like Carole and Jayne and Alison, for instance?"

"I'm not saying I should've won any prizes as a husband, Sandra." Gerry struggled against the elements to light another cigarette. "But I'm at least a step up from Stapleton and his lot."

He certainly was, so she didn't argue. Besides, her head was beginning to spin and she was absolutely bloody freezing. Gerry was making less sense than her mother had recently. "Why don't you just tell me exactly how I've wounded your great stupid macho pride so we can get on with it," she suggested coolly. "Because I know that's what it's down to. It always is with you."

"Why didn't you just do that Friday night, Sandra?" Gerry demanded, obviously equally pissed off. "That's what you do. You shout and have a strop and tell me I'm being an idiot."

Those blue eyes blinked a couple of times. All right, yes, she certainly did those things, but he didn't seem to mind. "You _are_ being an idiot. I should've done this instead of what?"

"That –" Gerry looked around furtively and dropped his voice in a very un-Gerry fashion. "That _kiss_."

Sandra's jaw literally dropped in dismay. "Oh, Christ, Gerry! If you're that offended, why not just have me up on charges?" Her eyes narrowed with disgust. "I can't wait to see the look on Strickland's face. We'll both be laughed out of the Met."

"You know it's not that, you stupid, bloody-minded—" A ray of rationality illuminated Gerry's vision, reminding him of their respective ranks just in time to prevent him from finishing his sentence. He broke off, again seeing the look on Sandra's face right before she had laid that unexpected, if not unwanted, kiss on him. When he'd turned around and seen Jon Stapleton watching them, he'd understood instantly. In fact, her behaviour for most of that evening had appeared in a different light.

"The last bloody thing I want from you is your pity," he spat. "I don't want it, and I definitely don't need it. You and Emily cooked up the idea that my delicate ego couldn't stand being compared to the likes of that moron Stapleton – as if I care what he thinks," Gerry scoffed. "That's why you agreed so readily to come along with me."

"Part of the reason," she acknowledged evenly. "But also because, believe it or not, I don't get invited to a lot of formal cocktail parties, and you're my _friend_." She scowled.

"Oh, come off. You thought you were doing me a big favour," he shot back. "Because, after all, I'm just a poor, sad ol' geezer that no one would spend a minute with otherwise, right? And then you had to go and perform the supreme act of charity."

He really was looking at her as if she'd murdered his dog.

"Because I kissed you," Sandra clarified in a voice dulled by disbelief. "I've finally got it now, have I?"

He wanted to shake her, but contented himself with hurling his cigarette into the river. So sodding sue him; in addition to his long list of previous offenses, he hadn't gone "green." "No," he bit out, "because you never would have done it otherwise."

Sandra stared at him. Just stared. A muscle twitched in her jaw. She looked – _aghast_ struck Gerry as a suitably dramatic term. And mad. Furious, actually.

"Christ, Gerry, you and your moronic, disproportionate pride," she seethed, her eyes cutting into him like razors. "Will you ever grow up, or will you just drop dead one day, still an eternal juvenile?"

Before he could thank her for the compliment, she grabbed the edges of his coat and yanked him toward her, throwing him off balance. That was the only warning he got, and his brain didn't have time to process it before her lips smashed into his, hard, as if she'd rather kick him than kiss him. There was no trace of the gentleness he'd felt in the brief brush of their mouths Friday night. Instead she surged angrily against him, aggressive and daring him to retreat. Her lips were slightly parted and the tang of the wine she'd been drinking cut through the flavour of cigarette smoke on his tongue. She held his jacket in a vice grip for a long moment, and then released him so abruptly that he stumbled against the safety railing behind him, the only thing that kept him from plunging into the river.

"There," Sandra positively snarled, looking, if possible, even angrier than she had a moment before. "Feel free to join us when you can behave like an adult. I'm freezing." With that she whirled on her booted heel and stalked back into the pub, slamming the door behind her.

Gerry stared at the red wooden door as if the answers to all of life's questions were inscribed there.

He had no idea what had just happened.

Yeah, Sandra had kissed him. Again. But he had no idea what that meant.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he felt like a first-rate tosser.

* * * * *

The knock at her office door startled Sandra, so intently focused on the report on her computer screen had she been, and she blinked wearily as she said, "Come in."

It was shortly after eight, and with any luck she'd be finished with the paperwork on the Neeley case before nine and finally able to go home. This way they could get a fresh start on something new – new to them – in the morning. Sandra, for one, could use a fresh start. This had been the weirdest evening she'd had in a while. And from the look of things, it was about to get weirder.

"What, Gerry?" she asked wearily, leaning back in her desk chair.

He held his free hand up, palm facing her, in mock surrender. "Hey, I've brought an olive branch, all right?" With his other hand he deposited the white paper bag on her desk. "I hope you haven't eaten."

He might not have to die yet, considering he'd brought her food. Sandra leaned forward. "What is it?" she asked, all but the rumbling of her stomach momentarily forgotten as she investigated the bag's contents.

"That's borscht, obviously." He nodded toward the soup container. "And the pierogi is spinach and cheese. It should still be hot."

She removed the plastic lid from the soup and steam curled toward the ceiling, confirming his words. Sandra inhaled deeply, then held up a printed napkin. Polonia, it proclaimed in bold black letters. "How did you know?" she asked, dipping the plastic spoon into the rich liquid.

One side of his mouth quirked in a half smile. "It's my favourite for borscht too," he admitted. "And it's not that far away, so I guessed. Detective work."

"I thought you didn't like Eastern European food," she retorted, but offered him a tiny smile. She'd wondered how they were going to discuss what had happened earlier in the evening, but having realised they simply weren't going to discuss it at all, Sandra had already begun to relax.

"I changed my mind," he replied affably. "The key to my panache is my lack of predictability."

Sandra snorted by way of reply. After she chewed and swallowed she said, "Thanks, Gerry. Now go away so I can finish this report."

"Good night, gov." Gerry sauntered out of the office, but reappeared almost instantly. "Does this mean I get to choose the restaurant next week, then?"

Fortunately for his dry-cleaning bill and the state of his wardrobe, the former sergeant still moved quickly enough to dodge the loaded soup spoon his governor threw directly at his new yellow tie.

_**A/N: I am a shameless hussy. Will write for reviews! Thanks to everyone who has received this little tale so warmly thus far. There are twelve parts, so the end time draws nigh.**_


	10. A White Christmas 1

Right, so, I know a Christmas story is not quite the thing in March, but if it makes you feel better, I wrote it at Christmas time. Indulge me, oh gentle readers, I prithee. Also, I'm splitting this excessively long chapter into two parts.

**10. A White Christmas, and Other Tales of Woe: Part One**

I.

_If I hear this bloody song one more sodding time, I will shoot something, or someone, other than a dog, _she thought.

Heathrow's Terminal Four possessed a desperately limited playlist of what someone had no doubt dubbed "holiday favourites," and what Sandra Pullman was now, after five hours of endless repeat, thinking of as purgatory. She wasn't at all convinced there was an afterlife – dealing with her current life was involved enough, thank you – but if there turned out to be, purgatory would no doubt be precisely like this: no decent food, overpriced coffee, heaps of cranky fellow travelers, limited and uncomfortable seating, and the sense of waiting, waiting, waiting for something you were becoming increasingly sure was never going to happen, all while being subjected to every excruciating, seizure-inducing note of "The Carol of the Bells" ad nauseam.

She stretched her legs out in front of her and twisted at the waist, attempting unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position in the hard plastic chair she'd been occupying for some three hours. She vaguely needed to go to the toilet, but was too savvy to abandon her precious bit of real estate. Uncomfortable as she was, she fancied standing for hours on end even less, and the airport was seething with thwarted holiday travelers.

The song finally changed, and Sandra gritted her teeth. Bing Crosby lovingly crooned "White Christmas." Irony was a nasty bitch.

Overnight Mother Nature or Father Christmas or some other malevolent spirit had deemed it expedient to dump slightly less than a foot of snow on an unprepared London, whose denizens had been blithely assured that the snowfall would be reduced to humdrum rain before it reached the city.

Au contraire.

Sandra had made the rather harrowing journey to the airport for what should have been her 11 a.m. flight to Mumbai, and what might now turn out to be her 6 p.m. flight, if the runways were clear enough.

She took another sip of her long-cold tea and schooled herself to be patient as she listened to Bing. A few planes had actually taken off during the last hour which, she told herself, was encouraging. Patience was not her strongest suit, but her time was no more valuable than anyone else's.

_Yes, it bloody well is_, interrupted another mental voice, this one petulant rather than long-suffering. _You've booked your two weeks off and you haven't had a proper holiday in six sodding years. Right now you are meant to be en route to fabulous temples, golden sand, and bona fide curries, not sitting here at sodding terminal sodding four on the verge of intense carol-induced rage._

She opened her eyes – she hadn't even realised she'd closed them – and looked out the massive window to her right, which gave onto the nearest of Heathrow's runways. It had been eerily, post-apocalyptically quiet all afternoon, but had recently started to stir with more hopeful signs of life.

And now, in the deepening twilight, it was rapidly turning into a post-industrial winter wonderland, as fat, puffy snowflakes fell thick and fast from the darkening sky, nearly obscuring Sandra's view of the 757 marooned on the other side of the glass.

"Snow!" shrieked a delighted toddler. "Mummy, snow!"

"Snow," Sandra repeated dully, squeezing her paper cup until it crumpled in her clenched fingers. "_Fuck._"

II.

A gentle wind ruffled the snow blanketing the back garden, forming it into graceful hills and valleys that resembled nothing so much as mounds of pure, glistening sugar.

It made him think of the Italian wedding cookies Mary had made every Christmas until the accident. He could still see her delicately veined hands as she measured out butter, pecans, and flour; he could smell the delightful warm, buttery scent that filled the entire house when she removed the freshly baked cookies from the oven. He could hear her voice as she scolded him for nicking the little balls from the cooling racks before she had carefully rolled them in confectioner's sugar. Her eyes had always laughed even as she clucked in consternation.

Mary had hated the cold, had always said that even watching the snow fall from a cozy armchair positioned strategically by the radiator froze her to the bone.

This Christmas Mary was out in the snow, so Jack was too. He readjusted his position on the wooden seat, resolutely ignoring the numbness of his toes and the unpleasant tingling of his fingers, even as they clutched the tumbler into which he had poured a generous measure of scotch. The fresh snow had entirely covered his wife's final resting place, blotting it out. Erasing her, erasing the memory of her.

Jack worried that he was starting to forget. Sometimes he had to close his eyes in order to recall her face, the smooth fall of her dark blonde hair, usually tucked neatly back behind her ears. The exact timbre of her voice. In the last year or two he had talked to her less, had been less conscious of her presence. For so long she had been there, almost as physically as when she had been alive, but that visceral sense-memory was ebbing away. Perhaps it was simply age; perhaps he, too, was beginning to ebb away.

Sometimes it felt more like peace. The haunting, hungry need to know who had killed his wife had finally been taken away. Mary was dead. Jack was still alive. As his lungs automatically filled with cold, clear air, he was forcibly reminded that the living had to live.

More often, though, the void where the need to know had so long lived was filled with guilt. Guilt that he had indirectly caused the death of the person he loved most. Guilt that he was still alive, becoming an old man, when her life had been so suddenly truncated. Guilt that he somehow managed to live with that reality.

As the snow shifted over Mary's monument, erasing her name, her presence from Jack's life, it was like losing her all over again, watching her slip slowly but inexorably away.

The scotch burned his throat when he took a generous swallow, but it did nothing to warm him.

III.

Esther firmly closed the bedroom door, creating a draft that made Brian shiver. His grey wool jumper had a hole in the elbow, but he refused to let Esther throw it on the rubbish heap, and he'd turned his considerable nose up at the kelly green zip-up number he'd unwrapped this morning.

"I'd look like a ponce," he'd said decidedly, and Esther had planted her hands on her hips.

"You've been spending too much time around Gerry."

"Gerry would wear it," Brian had retaliated as if that pronouncement closed the subject. "Why not give it to him?"

Compared to how she was looking now, Esther had looked positively thrilled when he'd suggested she re-gift his Christmas present.

"Brian," she said in a low, clipped tone, "I. Have. Had. Enough. If you're not going to make the slightest effort to participate and enjoy yourself, you can be off home."

"I don't happen to feel like playing charades," her husband responded sullenly, glowering down at the colourful rag rug that partially covered the wooden floor.

"I don't give a toss about the charades," she hissed, and his comeback – "And you've been spending too much time around Sandra" – earned him a sharp glare.

"You've been nothing but rude to my family all day. You've barely uttered a word that was longer than a single syllable, and you scarcely touched your lunch –"

"You're meant to have goose at Christmas," he interjected. "Who ever heard of having bloody roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?"

"You love Yorkshire pudding." She stepped forward, aiming the full thrust of her displeasure at him. "What you can't stand is the fact that we're not having Christmas at home, just the two of us and Mark."

"It's been good enough for the last 33 years," Brian sulked. "I don't know why this one had to be any different."

"Because now Mark is married, and occasionally Theresa likes to visit her family as well," Esther replied with exaggerated patience, as if he were a small, naughty child. "And they happen to live in Cornwall, in case you've forgotten, Memory Lane."

Brian flopped down on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. "I don't like change."

She actually laughed aloud before smothering her mirth with her palm. "Oh, Brian. That is the understatement of the century. But if you don't want a whole lot of other things to change at home, like whether or not you have clean laundry and hot dinners, you'd be wise to reconsider your behaviour, and not come back until you're fit for human company."

With that she left her husband alone in her sister's guest bedroom. Brian looked around the room, wondering (a) how long he could hide in here and (b) whether or not he could climb out the window.

An extremely annoying song filtered in from the next room, and Brian grimaced. "The Carol of the Bells." If his sister-in-law played this bloody song one more time, he was going to chuck the remains of the roast beef straight out into the snow, along with the undercooked Christmas pudding.

_Sandra had the right idea after all_, he thought glumly, looking out into the snowy night. _Christmas is for getting as far away from your family as possible._

IV.

"This is my favourite Christmas song," Amelia gushed from her position in the cramped kitchen, peeling parsnips at her father's elbow.

Emily stopped humming along, slightly off-key, to "The Carol of the Bells" as the strains emanated from the wireless speakers connected to the new satellite radio the ex-wives had purchased Gerry for Christmas, long enough to say, "Mine too."

"Must be genetic," Paula teased from her post at the cooktop, where she was sautéing onions. "Dad, without Jayne and Caitlin, you realise you're going to have mounds of left-overs, don't you?"

Gerry, currently up to his elbows in dishwater, shrugged. "So the three of you will eat well for the next week. That is, if you can wrestle a morsel away from your mum."

"I can hear you," Alison called from the next room. "I'm glad Caitlin and Jacob didn't try to make it back for the holiday. They'd be stuck in all this snowy mess."

Amelia laughed. "Somehow I doubt they're pining away for us, or for Christmas cheer, in Antigua."

"Be that as it may, I'm glad you lot are all here," Gerry replied, turning with a colander in his hand and edging toward the refrigerator. "I don't, however, need all of you in here simultaneously. I'm tryin' to cook."

Amelia, who was not exactly domestic, dropped her vegetable peeler instantly. "No problem," she said happily. "I'll go entertain Gerry."

"Let him entertain you, you mean!" Paula called. She stirred the onions and looked surreptitiously at her older sister. "So Em, is Felicity going to be able to come?"

Emily looked up from the French beans she was snapping, suddenly no longer a confident detective, but a deer caught in the headlights of a Land Rover. "Ah, she isn't sure yet."

"I'll watch the onions, Paula," Gerry offered. "You go on out and join the others. Have a nice glass of wine – But don't open the Barolo, it's meant to go with the meal."

"How should I slice the courgettes?" Emily asked hastily, turning toward the counter.

"Lengthwise." Gerry stopped what he was doing and leaned against the counter beside the dark-haired woman. "You didn't invite her," he surmised in an unusually low, discreet voice.

She swallowed, focused on creating symmetrical courgette wedges. "No."

Gerry slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he asked, rather too casually, "Everything going all right?"

Emily blew out a breath and rested her knife on the cutting board. "Everything's fine, Dad. But don't you think this would be just the slightest bit intimidating? Dinner with all of us?"

"We didn't traumatise her at the party or the wedding," he reasoned.

"But this is all family," she pointed out.

"Fair point." He began to tenderly rub earth from the delicate mushrooms he'd schlepped all the way to Borough Market to find. "What if I invited some other people round to join us?"

"Some 'other people'?" she echoed skeptically. "Not women?"

"Jack, for starters. As far as I know, his holiday tradition is sitting home and drinking himself to sleep by half nine." As he spoke, Gerry wondered why he hadn't insisted his friend join him and the girls before today. "And Brian and Esther were going over to her sister's, but he was all depressed because his son's not home this year, so I'll give him a bell."

"And Sandra?"

"Sandra's meant to be en route to India." He cocked an eyebrow. "What do you think the chances are?"

Emily winced. "Today? Not good."

"Right, Sandra too, then." Gerry whipped his mobile out of his trouser pocket. "Excuse me. I'm off to recruit the troops."

He jogged up the stairs to his bedroom for a modicum of privacy, scrolling through his contacts as he went. Jack came first alphabetically, but his first call wasn't to Jack. Halford… Lane…

"Ah, Sandra?"

V.

"What, Gerry?" she snapped dismally, watching all the delayed flights on the departure monitor flip over to "canceled." _Shit_.

"Not at 30,000 feet, then."

"Your razor-sharp mind: that's why you're a valuable asset to UCOS," she practically growled.

"Since you're stranded, why don't you come round for dinner? I'm cooking for Carole and Alison and the girls, and I've got enough food to feed the entire Chelsea side."

She hesitated.

"Look, gov, I think it would be good for Jack to come," he resumed in a lower voice. "But I doubt he will, unless he knows you'll be here too. You know how he is; otherwise he'll say it's all family," he wheedled.

He heard her sigh. "Yeah, all right. Shall I phone Jack?"

"Yeah, and I'll ring Brian. 7:30?"

Gerry hung up and immediately made another call, but not to Brian. Jack's mobile went straight to voicemail. Gerry swore and dialed his home number. "Jack? It's Gerry. Pick up if you're there, mate."

VI.

Brian was still hiding in Penelope's spare bedroom, picking at the hole in his jumper, when he heard a familiar electronic ring. Esther's mobile. He realised it must be in the pocket of her coat, which was amongst the pile tossed across the foot of the bed. Without a second thought, he began burrowing, and didn't stop until his fingers touched cold, hard plastic. He blinked at the name scrolling across the display.

"Gerry," he said by way of greeting. "Save me, mate."

Approximately two minutes later Brian appeared in the midst of Esther's family, appropriately clad to do battle with the sort of cold that descended upon the Siberian steppes, but which had historically left London well alone. In his ankle-length down coat, red flannel scarf, and wooly hat, complete with protective ear flaps, he looked so comical that Penelope and David's seven-year-old granddaughter emitted a peal of giggles.

But Brian was on fire. Nothing could wound his dignity.

"Esther, love, I must be off out. New case." He turned the full force of his best company smile on his sister-in-law. "Penelope, thank you for a lovely afternoon. Must dash. Don't wait up, Esther."

VII.

_If I hear this bloody song one more time_, Jack thought as the strains of "The Carol of the Bells" reached him even where he sat frozen nearly solid in the garden, _I am going to lift every one of those carolers for disturbing the bloody peace. Carolers_, _in_ _London, in_ _2010_. _Ridiculous_. _This isn't some Dickens novel._

Instinctively he looked over toward Mary, but saw only fluffy mounds of snow. "Happy Christmas, love," he said in her direction, toasting her with his nearly-empty glass. "Maybe I'll join you under there before I have to celebrate another one."

"Sandra would not be best pleased to hear you talking like that, Jack Halford."

Mary's voice penetrated his consciousness so distinctly that Jack actually jumped – or would have done, had he not been frozen in place like the Tin Man in need of oil.

_Aural hallucinations_, he thought, looking around furtively. _Better than the carolers, at any rate_.

Although he should probably go back inside. Mary wouldn't be happy if he were found frozen to death out here, a Jack-cicle. Neither would Sandra.

Mary had liked Sandra, had encouraged Jack to invite her for dinner even when he insisted it wasn't appropriate for him to single out a member of his team, especially a young woman.

His wife had laughed. "She could be your _daughter_, Jack."

He could still see those two blonde heads, one light and one dark, bent together over the dining table as Mary shared some secret with the young policewoman and their laughter filled the room. If he and Mary had had a daughter, she might have had golden hair like Sandra's.

Jack knew he had, in a professional sense, assumed the role of a father where Sandra was concerned. He'd done it consciously, mindful of his indirect involvement in her real father's decision to end his life. ("Perhaps you should tell her," Mary had suggested once, long ago, and Jack had flatly refused. "She thinks he had a heart attack," he'd reasoned. "It would be cruel." Mary had not looked convinced, but had never returned to the subject.)

That was part of the reason he'd mentored her, but only, as it turned out, a small part. Sandra herself was the rest of the reason. She had the inherent abilities of an exceptional officer, no fear of hard graft, and was almost too tenacious for her own good.

And now she was his governor. Some might have called it ironic; Jack knew it was only fitting.

"Jack?"

_Bollocks, enough with the hallucinations!_

But no. There, standing just inside the garden gate as if his thoughts had conjured her, was Detective Superintendent Pullman in the flesh. He watched her eyes narrow slightly as she immediately took in his empty glass and frigid state, but she only said, "I rang you, and I rang the bell."

"I didn't hear." _I was talking to Mary_, he appended mentally. "Not halfway to Bombay, I see."

"It's Mumbai now, you know." Sandra took a few steps forward, her boots crunching in the snow. "BA said I might get out tomorrow night, but more likely Monday."

"At least you'll get there."

"Presumably." She took another step forward and sank slightly. "Come on, I'm here to take you to Gerry's for dinner, so get your skates on."

"But I don't –"

"It's that or we stay here and I make us a meal, so you decide."

"Right." Jack stood with alacrity despite his creaking joints. "What are you waiting for, then?"

_That's more like it_, submitted a third voice. _Happy Christmas, love. Give my regards to Sandra and the others._


	11. and Other Tales of Woe

_And off we go for the second half of Christmas in March. If I keep posting at this rate, you lot are going to think I have no life – which is not precisely true, but I __**am**__ a champion procrastinator when it comes to working on my actual work! This is much more fun. On with the show._

White Christmas, Part Dos

VIII.

Meanwhile, back at Chez Standing, Paula, who was working her way through her third glass of cabernet – apparently she had taken her father's advice – bellied up next to Gerry at the cooktop.

"Is it remotely possible," she began, her vowels a touch more liquid than usual, "that you would not have been so eager to invite your colleagues to join us if you hadn't realised Sandra was likely trapped in airport hell?" She spoke with the exaggerated precision of the partially intoxicated.

Her father peered at the browning goose. Both he and it remained carefully expressionless. "You'd like to spend Christmas at Heathrow, would you, love?"

She stuck her tongue out at him, exactly as she'd been doing since she was a cheeky three-year-old.

"And Jack by himself and Brian – well, Brian," Gerry continued. Paula opened her mouth to respond, and her father took the opportunity to shove a piece of salami in. "Here, you're pissed." He picked up the tray of meats, cheeses, and bread waiting on the counter and handed it to the blonde. "Take this out to the rest of the coven." The buzzer sounded. "And let Emily answer the door," he added.

When the buzzer went again half an hour later, the master of the house answered in person.

"What in hell have you got on your head, Gerry?" Sandra asked in the tone that told him she neither expected nor wanted an answer.

"And happy Christmas to you, too," he responded from beneath the Father Christmas hat he donned annually. Gerry loved the holidays, as he always had done from childhood. For a few days a year, responsible, world-weary adults were transformed into gleeful children. It basically put them on a level with Gerry, he reflected. Sandra had been right last week, in a sense: he considered growing up to be vastly over-rated.

In retaliation Gerry removed his hat and smooshed it down over Sandra's straw-coloured hair.

"That's better," Jack pronounced as she frowned. "Happy Christmas, Gerry. Good evening, ladies."

Having provided the new arrivals with drinks, Gerry retreated to the kitchen to put the final touches on the meal. After a few minutes Sandra followed him, glass in hand.

"Is this all for Emily's benefit?" she asked in a low voice, her lips curving into the soft, warm smile he rarely saw. "Inviting us, I mean."

He smiled back. "In part, yeah." Gerry reached out and drew the end of the Santa hat over Sandra's shoulder. "And I thought you might prefer roasted goose and Barolo to a Pret sandwich and coffee."

She wrinkled her nose. "I've already had both of those." Sandra lifted the lid from a nearby pot. "What else are we having, then?"

Gerry snatched the lid from her fingers. "You'll find out soon enough. Now get out of me kitchen. I'm working, and you're bloody useless."

Jack was in the process of opening Gerry's door to Brian, sans Esther. "How did you get here, then?" he asked, mildly curious.

Brian didn't remove his hands from the depths of his coat pockets. "Bus."

Jack's eyes widened. "Bus?"

"And before that the tube. From Cockfosters." Brian stepped inside the flat. "Desperate times, et cetera."

No Jayne, Sandra noted in the living room. No Caitlin, no Jacob. Maybe old Father Christmas was suffering from a bit of empty-nest syndrome.

She was headed toward Emily and Felicity when Paula intercepted her. "Sandra!" she exclaimed, pulling a surprised detective superintendent into an enthusiastic embrace. "I'm _so_ glad you could come! Dad's really pleased."

_Drunk_, Sandra concluded as she smiled and patted the other woman's shoulder. _Wish I were too._

On the sofa, Alison and Carole exchanged a significant look.

"Sandra," Alison called, "do come and join us. We've dragged out the family photos."

Gerry had supreme confidence in the restorative powers of a substantial, lovingly prepared meal. As he and Amelia placed all the food on the table, he kept one eye on the others. Brian was already engaged in a philosophical gab with Felicity. Jack settled next to him, with Gerry at the head of the table. Paula sat at the foot, with her son on her left and her mother beside him; next came Sandra, sandwiched between the two ex-wives, with Amelia between her parents.

_Happy families_, Gerry thought, not bothering to suppress a grin as he carved the goose. His two worlds were colliding and melding together – for the first time, really. Emily lived in both of those worlds, but she was unique. Sandra and Carole leaned into one another, the gov's eyes on Gerry and a wicked smile on her face as Carole whispered in her ear. Sandra began to laugh out loud, heartily, and Gerry winced as he divvied up the goose. Perhaps this hadn't been such a brilliant idea after all.

An hour and a half later, though, he was congratulating himself on being a genius. The girls would be kept in leftovers for only a couple of days, wine had flowed freely, and at some point Brian had stolen the Santa hat and put it on Jack's head. Carole and Alison had Sandra between them again on the sofa, and they were paging through the album that contained photos of Gerry from his much younger days. The prospect was somewhat terrifying, and Gerry feared he'd walk into work some morning to find a giant photo of himself with a perm and bell-bottoms magnetized to the white board, but Sandra was laughing so hard that she'd gone red, and they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. At his expense, but what did that matter? Brian was entertaining both young Gerry and his mother, and Jack was chatting seriously with Amelia – Gerry overheard the words "Dickens," "Trollope," and "Panopticon," so he assumed they were discussing Amelia's doctoral research. Gerry himself, meanwhile, had finally snagged an opportunity to have a real conversation with Emily and Felicity.

He half noticed when Sandra excused herself, and vaguely noted when Jack followed her a few minutes later.

"Dad, is there any more coffee?" Emily asked, and Gerry went into the kitchen to check. Sandra was leaning against the refrigerator, and Jack was talking.

"… sure you should go?" Gerry heard.

Sandra glanced in Gerry's direction before returning her focus to her older colleague. She sighed deeply. "My mother insists, Jack. I've offered over and over to stay, but she insists that if I come back to the rehabilitation facility before the 8th she'll refuse to see me." She reached up and rubbed the center of her forehead, always a sign of stress. "Let's conclude that I'm an utter failure as a daughter and leave it at that, all right?"

"I didn't say that, Sandra."

She refilled her coffee cup and turned on her heel. "You might as well have. It's true." She brushed past Gerry on her way out of the kitchen. Jack sighed and held up his palms before the other man could speak.

"Leave it," he said. "I'll talk to her after she's calmed down."

"Nah, let me."

Gerry returned to the other room, served coffee, and was carrying the empty pot to the kitchen when Sandra's mobile went. She glanced down at the display before cheerfully saying, "Hi, Esther, happy Christmas… What new case? No, of course not." She glared pointedly at Brian. "No, we're all at Gerry's, and don't bother. I'll bring him home."

Gerry used his free hand to smack Brian on the back of the head, and Sandra's glare widened to include both of them as she stood and slipped her mobile into her pocket. "Brian," she said sharply. "Time to go. And I wouldn't want to be you when you get home. I'll drop you as well, Jack."

After they'd said their good-nights to the others, Gerry trailed them to the door and held Sandra's coat out for her before she could protest.

"Thanks," she said as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

"I can be a gentleman, you know."

She turned to face him, rolling her eyes. "I meant thank you for having us, you idiot." Her wide smile removed all harshness from her words. "It was much nicer than a take-away back at my flat."

"It was nicer than what I had planned too," Jack agreed, understated as usual, but smiling warmly.

"It was worth it," Brian chimed in, again suiting up for the Arctic Circle.

"Cheers. I'll see you two geezers Monday." Gerry's eyes met those of his boss. "Bon voyage, then. Don't marry a maharajah."

She snorted. "I don't think they have those any more, Gerry. But even if they do, I assure you my marrying days are over."

Gerry smirked. "Mine too." He watched them tromp down the sidewalk and, as an after-thought, before he shut the door he shouted, "Oi, Sandra, bring me back something nice!"

Not too long after, all the girls began preparing to leave, trooping toward the door en masse as they often did.

"That was nice," Emily said as she kissed her father's cheek.

"It was," Amelia agreed, doing likewise as she tied the belt of her thigh-length yellow coat.

"Why not have them back for Easter?" Paula suggested guilelessly. "Gerry, say goodnight to Grandpa."

"I like your friends," her mother said in exactly the same tone, in case there was any doubt as to where Paula had picked it up, as he helped her on with her coat. "It's a shame you haven't invited them round more in all this time."

Alison's houndstooth cashmere was last. "Jack's very nice, and Brian is… interesting." A pause. "I particularly like Sandra."

"I like her too." Gerry frowned at his second wife. "I _have_ worked with her for over eight years, you know. She's my governor."

The blonde blinked. "Of course," she replied, stepping out into the cold. "She's obviously made of stern stuff to put up with you for that long. I only lasted four." She shot him a devious grin, the prototype of Amelia's, over her shoulder. "And she's quite pretty, isn't she?" she called as she walked away.

"I think you two have got the wrong idea!" Gerry shouted, but his ex-wives showed no sign of having heard. Shaking his head, he stepped inside and closed the door. The flat was uncomfortably warm after the frigid December air.

Imagine the idea of him making a move on Sandra, his governor, the woman he'd once called Madam Ice Knickers, after all these years. It was ridiculous. If something was going to happen between the two of them, it would have happened long ago.

Wouldn't it?

He flashed on the angry, disgusted way she'd pressed him up against the railing separating them from the frigid Thames and kissed him. It had, frankly, been terrifying.

Which was no doubt why the memory kept creeping up on him at odd moments, and why he'd never really cared one way or the other about snow until today.

"Ridiculous," he repeated aloud.

She'd proved that she felt sorry for him, which was utterly demoralizing. It wasn't as if Sandra had an overly active personal life herself.

_Because no one's good enough for her_, another Gerry pointed out reasonably. _Least of all you, you idiot. She knows practically every embarrassing secret you've ever had, every promise you've broken, every piss-poor decision you've made. Not to mention that she's ten years younger than you, beautiful, and, oh yeah, your bloody boss_. She might not think much about it, but Gerry was pretty confident that Sandra could have just about any man at the Met between the ages of thirty and dead.

_And yet she spends a lot of time with you_, the first voice retaliated.

Gerry felt like shouting in frustration. Wasn't this the sort of internal dialog teenage girls – and boys, come to that – were meant to have? Surely he'd outgrown it forty years ago.

As his track record with marriage might suggest, Gerry wasn't given to analyzing a woman's actions – unless, of course, she figured into one of his investigations. But _Christ_, why had Sandra kissed him that second time?

_Ask her when she gets back from India_, said that first voice, conjuring images of a tanned, glowing, relaxed Sandra. _You interview people all the time. Ask her_.

_As if_, snorted the second voice.

The buzzer pealed inches from his ear, causing Gerry to leap into the air. He spun around, wrenched open the door, and found himself confronting a taken-aback Sandra, who plainly hadn't expected the door to be opened so rapidly.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

"Sandra," he replied, his tone utterly flattened by surprise. _I was definitely not just imagining you barefoot on a tropical beach._ "What are you doing here?"

She blinked, and Gerry belatedly realised that he hadn't sounded overly welcoming. "I forgot to give you your Christmas gift," she explained, "so I dropped the boys off and came back. But it will keep, if I'm interrupting something." Sandra peered surreptitiously over his shoulder.

"Aw, no, nothing like that." Gerry flung the door open a little too wide. "Will you come in?"

Her features relaxed into a slight smile. "For just a moment," she accepted, following him inside but keeping her hands behind her back. "Don't get excited," she cautioned. "It came from the duty-free." With that she held out a bottle of amber liquid. He looked at the label.

"Old Granddad 114." He cocked a sandy eyebrow at her as he accepted it. "Bleedin' hilarious. I hope this isn't my souvenir from the exotic East."

She shrugged. "I couldn't resist," she replied unapologetically. "And it's meant to be quite good, apparently."

"American whisky 'quite good'?" he asked skeptically. "We'll see about that." Gerry gestured toward the lounge area. "Stay and have one with me."

"A small one," she agreed, again slipping out of her coat and hanging it up. "I have to drive."

He poured two fingers for himself, one and a half for Sandra, as she settled herself on the sofa. "Ice?" She scrunched up her nose and Gerry grinned. "Good girl," he complimented, handing over the glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Their glasses clinked as he sank into the opposite end of the sofa. She yawned. "Sorry," she murmured."

"You've had a long day." He glanced at the clock on his DVD player. "It's quarter to eleven. So – worst Christmas ever?"

She sipped her drink before responding. "Whew, that'll wake you," she commented.

Gerry tried his. "It'd wake the dead," he agreed. "But it's smooth."

Sandra nodded. She took another sip. "Not the worst Christmas ever," she said. "But pretty miserable until a few hours ago."

"Pity you had such awful traveling weather."

"It's not only that." She looked away, studying the bookcase to their right, as if that made it easier for her to speak. "I don't even know if I should go, Gerry."

"If this is about what Jack said –"

"It isn't," she cut in, her blue eyes returning to his. "What I mean is he didn't say anything I haven't been thinking since my mother had her second stroke. Spectacularly bad timing, but I should probably just forget the whole thing."

"But you want to go," he put in, leaning slightly toward her. "You haven't had a vacation in years."

"I do, but it's more than that." She shifted uneasily, looking away again and taking another drink of the whisky. "She doesn't want me there, even when I visit. What good would it do her for me to stay? What good would it do either of us? She uses what strength she has to push me away, literally."

"I thought she didn't recognise you."

"That hasn't happened in several weeks," she replied, looking him in the eye again. "Both her clarity and her speech have improved, and her range of motion is even a bit better. Her doctors are satisfied with her progress – although she isn't, obviously. They say she's getting better every day and there's no reason for me not to go to India."

"So go."

She sighed, those clear blue eyes sliding away again. "I'd stay if she needed me," she said. "If she wanted me."

"I'm sure what she wants right now is just to get better," Gerry encouraged, almost wincing at the lameness of his words.

Sandra forced a smile. "Of course," she agreed. "How selfish to make it about me." She swallowed the remainder of her drink in one go and stood abruptly. "Thanks for the drink, Gerry. It's home time for me."

He accompanied her to the door. "So we'll see you on the 8th, yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I suppose. If you lot don't get us all sacked before then."

"If we do, we'll help you clean your desk out on the 8th," he teased, helping her into her coat again and automatically freeing the ends of her silky hair from the collar. He patted her shoulders, smoothing the wool fabric, and unlatched the outer door for her. When she stepped out, he followed.

"We'll be good, gov, I promise," he vowed more seriously once they were again facing one another. The door closed behind Gerry, shutting the light inside the building.

"You'd better, or I'll –"

"Have my balls for earrings?" he suggested, reminding her of the most vivid bodily threat she'd ever made against him.

"Oh, no. I have two weeks to think of something much more creative." She was smiling, though. Sandra looked up at the frozen tree branches overhead. "I always forget how quiet it can be after a snow, how still."

Indeed, the whole street – for all intents and purposes, the whole world – was hushed and dormant. Somehow standing out there beside her in all that silence felt strangely intimate.

"Drive safely," Gerry said because he had to say something.

"The roads aren't that bad." She stepped a tiny bit closer, really just an inch or two, and lightly touched his shirtsleeve. "I heard the voicemail you left Jack," she said without rancor, her eyes searching his weathered face. "You told him you were worried _I_ wouldn't come tonight without _him_. What did you tell Brian?"

"Nothing." Gerry smiled very slightly. "I didn't have to. He was desperate to escape. I said 'goose,' and he was out the door."

"I can't believe he took a bus." Her eyes sparkled. "Thank you, Gerry. Honestly. I know I don't say it enough."

"It was just a meal." That stubborn piece of hair swooped across her forehead and into her eyes, and before Gerry could stop it, his hand was closing the distance between them and brushing it back into place. "A delicate and exquisitely prepared meal, granted."

"Not just for tonight." Her eyes fixed on his. "For all the meals. You've been – a good friend." Her eyes not leaving his, she stepped into him, and Gerry thought his heart stuttered – maybe he really was too old for this. It only took a second, though, for his mind to catch up and realise she wasn't going to kiss him. Instead Sandra's arms went around him in a bona fide hug, awkward at first until she figured out where to put her head, since they were basically the same height. After a few seconds she settled for lightly resting her smooth cheek against his rougher one.

Gerry's arms went around her, and he squeezed so hard that he momentarily crushed the breath from her lungs. "Sandra," he said simply, one hand drifting up to press against the back of her head, lightly smoothing her hair.

She rose the tiniest bit onto her toes and her lips grazed his cheek, so softly, so lightly that he barely felt the contact.

It was the most intimate thing he'd felt in – he didn't even want to think about how long.

She stepped away, looking slightly embarrassed. _Jesus, Standing, you are an idiot_, he thought. _And you're bloody hard-up, mate, if you react like this when a woman kisses you on the cheek. What are you, twelve?_

"Bye," she offered with that unmistakable lilt at the end that turned it into a two-syllable word.

"Bye, Sandra." _Breathe, Gerald_. "Have a wonderful time. We'll take care of everything here."

She'd already begun to walk toward her car. "You'd better," she warned, looking back at him, "or –"

"I know." He lifted his hand in a brief wave. "Or else."

Gerry stood in the doorway, watching her until she got into the blue convertible and disappeared from sight. The Christmas present Sandra had just given him was certainly the most memorable he'd received this holiday season – and he didn't mean the one she'd bought at the duty-free.

_Note: for the benefit of the curious, I've realised that I mis-counted previously, so there are three more chapters to come. Math is not my forte._


	12. Lunch, Actually

_A/N: This one is entirely Brian's show. Hope you enjoy._

**XI. Interlude: Lunch, Actually**

Inedible. Horrific. Disgusting. Stomach-turning. Revolting.

Gerry thought Brian's palate had the sensitivity of an elephant's hoof, which showed how much the Cockney ex-copper _really_ knew about food. If his colleague were present, he'd probably bolt the ham, cheese, and pickle sandwich on whole-wheat bread without thinking twice.

And who would be obtuse then, hmm?

Unfortunately Gerry was out on inquiries, so Brian couldn't perform the experiment. He looked again at the plastic container in which his wife had packed his lunch, as she did almost every day, and nearly gagged.

Esther would want him to save the container, but in Brian's opinion it couldn't be salvaged. He chucked the whole thing into the rubbish bin and stood. "Cafeteria," he announced to the empty office.

As he took the elevator up, Brian pondered this latest turn of events. Esther was a paragon of wifely virtues and an excellent cook – and yet even she occasionally turned out something inedible.

Like that sandwich, the thought of which made him shudder.

It was the bread. The bread ruined the whole thing.

"Chips, please," he said to the dinner lady. "And beans and a sausage. Oh yeah, lovely."

For once Brian wished his memory functioned less like an air-tight container and more like a sieve. Then the lunch on his tray would erase the memory of that awful sandwich.

The halves weren't symmetrical.

One slip of the knife, and the entire sandwich had been ruined. A sandwich was supposed to be divided into two _equal_ portions.

Lovely chips. Esther hardly ever let him eat chips.

Brian chose a place beside the window and settled down with his feast. The January sky was the colour of slate, flat and brooding over the city. He was glad he wasn't out on his bike.

Under Jack's supervision they had been working a new case, but they'd learned the hard way that even the smallest detail took exponentially longer without a serving officer amongst them. They'd all allowed themselves to forget the sheer amount of donkey work involved in each case, the endless bureaucracy every officer had to deal with, because Sandra did it. She made phone calls, filled in forms, wrote reports, and placated Strickland – something at which none of them particularly excelled. Then there were the legal difficulties of getting a warrant or having someone brought in for questioning.

No, Brian didn't like change, as he had announced to Esther at Christmas, and without Sandra this ruddy job wasn't worth having. Fortunately she'd be back in five days and things would return to normal at UCOS. If she only went on holiday once every seven years, Brian thought he'd be able to stick it out.

Maybe when she came back the real Jack and Gerry would return as well. If not, Brian would have to re-evaluate his theories on the likelihood of dual alien abduction.

Jack wasn't really doing anything wildly out of character, to be fair. Brian had been reassured to find his colleague practicing his golf swing in the office this morning, for instance. But he had been bizarrely cheerful since Christmas, and Brian had never known the ex-superintendent to have a love affair with the holidays, particularly not since Mary's death. He couldn't identify the reason for Jack's changed behavior, which was, to put it mildly, irksome.

The real burr digging into his flesh, though, was Gerry. If it _was_ Gerry, and not some alien clone sent to infiltrate the human race.

The mad had become frighteningly efficient.

Brian wouldn't have wanted anyone to misinterpret him: Gerry Standing was a good friend and, more importantly, a good copper. He could be startlingly intuitive, but much of what the man himself called "instinct" was really quick deductive reasoning. And yes, that meant he was very detail-oriented, but when it came to the bureaucratic aspect of the job, Gerry had certainly never seemed to feel any compunction about skiving off whenever possible.

And now he was dotting every bloody _i_ and crossing every sodding _t_.

Not only that: Brian had caught him cleaning the office. Cleaning. He'd never seen Gerry's flat anything but tidy, true, but he had even taken it so far as nixing Brian's proposal to bring the dog to work – just while Sandra was away, of course – and following him around hoovering up crisp and biscuit crumbs. Hoovering, for Christ's sake. He was being cagey about it, but the only explanation that Brian could furnish was that Gerry had done something incredibly stupid and Sandra either had found out or teetered on the brink of finding out, and this was a sad attempt to curry favour. Brian had caught him _dusting_ her _desk_. _Sandra_ didn't even dust her desk.

That or, you know, it could be the alien thing.

But that was absurd. If aliens wanted to merge secretly with humanity in order to gather information about earth's strengths and weaknesses preparatory to the launch of a full-scale intergalactic assault, why in blazes choose Gerry? Jack he could understand; but Gerry?

Brian himself would have been a more logical choice – unless he was too highly intelligent. Perhaps that was it.

_Oi_, protested a voice in his head. It sounded remarkably like Gerry. _Stop talking shite. Did you remember your medication this morning?_

Fair point. Had he?

He was pondering this and sopping up traces of bean juice with his remaining chips when another voice addressed him. "Brian," it said simply.

"Go away," he muttered, fed up with being distracted. He was also reasonably sure he had, in fact, taken his pills with his orange squash, so this was somewhat worrisome. "Can't you see I'm eating me lunch?"

"Brian!" This time the voice was both imperative and evidently scandalized. The possibility that he was, in this particular instance, being addressed by a live person occurred to him as he looked up slightly from his plate to see grey trousers and a black belt. "I'm afraid your appetite is _not_ my top priority right now."

Brian choked on his chip and coughed. "Sir," he managed, his eyes watering as he met the displeased gaze of DAC Strickland. "Can I help you with something, sir?"

"I hope so." Strickland ran his fingers through his rapidly graying hair, as if he were too preoccupied to bother being angry with Brian. "Your office is empty, and I've been ringing both Gerry and Jack's mobiles for forty-five minutes with no result."

"No, you wouldn't have had." Brian swallowed and quickly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin he seized from the tabletop dispenser. "They've gone out to Wormwood Scrubs to talk to Geoffrey Spruell and left me here to do the grunt work."

"That can wait. Do you have any idea how I can reach Detective Superintendent Pullman?"

Brian's eyes widened. "Sandra? She's in India."

"I know that, Brian." The younger man impatiently fisted his hands against his hips. "Specifically where? Please don't tell me she's on some yoga retreat with no telephone or internet access."

"_Sandra?_" Brian blinked. "Not bloody likely, is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Half one here, January 4th, which means it's just gone seven Mumbai time." Brian envisioned the itinerary Sandra had left clipped to the white board, just in case. "She left Jaipur the day before yesterday on the 14:10. She hadn't decided where to stop en route, but if she's taken the superfast train she should've reached Mumbai Central no later than noon today – provided the train arrived as scheduled, which is unlikely as the percentage of on-time arrivals on that route is approximately forty-two."

Strickland mentally distilled this information. "So Mumbai; she's in Mumbai. Do you know where -?"

"The Orchid, Nehru Road, Vile Parle E." He shrugged apologetically. "I don't remember the telephone number. Must be age."

"That's easy enough," Strickland replied, turning away.

Sir?" Brian rose, abandoning his tray to follow his boss's boss. "Why do you need to reach her? Is it a case?"

Strickland jabbed the elevator's call button. "No," he sighed. "She needs to come home right away. It's her mother."


	13. The Grapes of Wrath

_A/N: We have officially entered the home stretch. Many thanks to those of you who are still reading, and especially to those who are still reviewing. This is another two-part chapter, and then there's one more to go – so lucky thirteen in all. Fair warning: this chapter may not make me too popular. Also, I'm not going to win any prizes here for unpredictability. Oh, and finally, I apologise for the Gertrude Stein-ian sentence structures and punctuation herein; it just felt right._

**XII. The Grapes of Wrath: Part 1**

The green grapes were bitter on her tongue. They tasted of grief, of emptiness, of anger, of missed chances and moments of silence. They were ice cold and a touch too firm as her even teeth sliced through their skin and into their flesh. Chew, swallow, repeat, all the while thinking, _I never want to eat another grape_.

They had served grapes as part of the in-flight meal on that long, numbing haul from Mumbai to Frankfurt – desiccated, horrible purple-red lumps lying helplessly on the plastic tray. She'd felt every bit as fucking useless as they were, trapped in limbo, in a strange state of suspended emotional animation.

_My mother is dead_, she told herself as she folded her body into the uncomfortably narrow middle seat and stared vacantly at the seat pocket in front of her. _My mother is dead_, she repeated as she passed through customs_. My mother is dead_, as she waited in the departures lounge. Rinse and repeat. _My mother is dead_, on the trip to her flat. _My mother is dead_, through the long night that felt like broad day to her, moving restlessly around her familiar space, thinking that it should somehow be different, look different, feel different. _My mother is dead_, as she positioned her exhausted, disorientated body under the shower spray. _My mother is dead_, on the drive to the rehabilitation facility to collect Grace's few personal items ("It was so sudden," said the floor nurse, apologetically), and then to the retirement home, where she hid from her mother's well-meaning friends, unable to bear their condolences, not sure she wanted or deserved them.

_My mother is dead._ It was her mantra, because it didn't quite feel real. Or maybe it did; maybe this was how she was going to feel, this vague numbness that might be pain, and that was all. Her father's death had been so different – But she had been a girl then, and she had adored Gordon, venerating an idea of him that was and wasn't reality.

Her mobile had rung as she stood in Grace's room, strangely empty now that the owner and cherisher of these possessions has left them behind. _This is all there is_, she thought. _Just this_.

The caller was Gerry. He had rung three times; this time he left a message. She couldn't, simply couldn't. She would listen to the voicemail later, would hear him say, "Sandra, it's Gerry. I don't mean to be a nuisance. Just let me know if there's anything – anything at all I can do. Just give me a bell."

She packed up Grace's things, placed them carefully into two boxes, then dumped the boxes unceremoniously into her car's boot, at a loss as to what else to do with them. There were forms to be signed, keys to be returned. It was anticlimactic and unsatisfying.

She wanted to pretend that she hadn't, in a state of childlike hurt, as if something had cut into her flesh, torn her mother's room apart searching for a single photo of herself, and not found one. Grace had displayed family photos in her house – not many, but a few. Here there were none, and Sandra knew exactly why: her mother had been hurt when she'd discovered that there were no photos of her in Sandra's flat. Not keeping a photograph of her daughter had been a calculated decision, typically Grace. Sandra could imagine herself doing something similar.

She sat right down in the floor and laughed because it hurt. She would vastly have preferred to cry.

Sandra talked to Jack after she'd read the letter her mother had left for her, _Sandra_ clearly printed on the envelope in slightly wavering letters – the way Grace's penmanship had looked after the first stroke. The hollowness inside her chest had increased as she'd read, as if someone had cleverly removed several of her internal organs without arousing her notice.

_Dear Sandra_, the letter began, _If you're reading this, then it has finally happened: I'm dead._

(Grace never had been one for sentimental, flowery language, Sandra reflected, and felt her lips quirk into a smile as her throat burned.)

_I've taken care of all the arrangements for a simple memorial service, so you won't have to bother with the details._

That stung like a slap. Trust Grace to find a way to be passive-aggressive from the grave. Sandra heard her voice: "You're always so _busy_, Sandra. It's always about you and the _job_."

As if she couldn't, wouldn't, have made time to plan her mother's funeral.

"She's arranged it all," she informed Jack flatly. "Very brief. Graveside memorial, no service. She wanted to be cremated, apparently, and have her ashes interred." Surely other mothers and daughters discussed these things; they hadn't. She knew far more about what Jack, Brian, and even Gerry wanted to happen to their earthly remains after they'd shuffled off this mortal coil.

Grace wanted her ashes interred, but not beside her husband, and not with her parents: alone, as she had lived most of her life.

On Jack's end there was a weighty pause. "When?"

"Thursday, 2:00."

"That's tomorrow."

"Yes." Sandra choked back a bitter laugh. Had she not been able to change her travel plans, she would have missed her mother's funeral. The arrangements glided along smoothly without her, independent of her, like Grace herself. It was fitting and it was horrible and Sandra felt bloody useless. Superfluous.

"We'll all be there, of course." Jack didn't offer sympathy, not overtly. He was just – Jack. That was as comforting as anything could be, which was not very.

When she went to the mortuary to see Grace's body, the director was clearly surprised to learn that Grace Pullman had any family, let alone a daughter.

Sandra had stood there looking at her mother's cold, waxy skin and felt – numb. Empty. Cold.

_Cold_.

Guilty as hell.

Resentful.

_Thanks, Mum_.

She gazed for a full ten minutes and didn't shed a tear. It was horrible.

It was cold here. _Cold_.

She hadn't cried since she'd received the news. It wasn't that she wouldn't allow herself to. She just couldn't, and she didn't know why.

It was Strickland who had reached her in the end. He'd been unsure, hesitant. "She had a massive stroke," he'd said. "I'm so sorry, Sandra."

The fact that the task of informing her of her mother's death had fallen to her superior officer said something brutal about Sandra's life, she thought. Something not so different from what her mother had said on that last, awful visit.

Standing in the whipping wind at the memorial, she was conscious only of the physical cold. Some of her mother's friends from the retirement home had turned up – Sandra wasn't even sure how they knew where to come, or when – and her boys. Emily stood by Gerry; Esther, of course, by Brian, several feet behind the detective superintendent.

An unremarkable male voice was droning, but she couldn't distinguish the words, couldn't force herself to make the effort. Something penetrated the cold: a hand, coming to rest on the red wool fabric of her favourite coat where it covered her shoulder blade. Jack, she thought. Maybe Gerry. When she turned and saw Brian, her eyes glazed over with quick, hot tears which she immediately blinked away. She understood how much that simple gesture meant coming from him, how out of character it was. She felt more than saw Jack and Gerry move up to flank him so that the four of them stood together apart.

Grace's friends came up to speak to her afterward, to murmur the usual condolences, and she felt like a fraud. She couldn't do this properly either, this grieving thing.

"Come on, then," Jack said, nudging her arm after it was all over. "We'll buy you a drink."

"Or ten," Gerry chimed in, almost the first words he'd said to her all day.

Sandra caught sight of someone familiar and unexpected. "Wait," she told her friends, and walked over to her half-brother.

"Tom," she said, looking up into his handsome, youthful face. Jesus, she felt a thousand years older than he was.

"Sandra." When he reached out to embrace her she didn't pull away. He smelled of spearmint and something else, something fresh and earthy. "I'm so sorry about your mum."

She frowned, wondering. "How – who -?"

"One of your colleagues rang me." He looked over her squared shoulder to where the three older men stood. "Which one's Gerry?"

"On the left," she murmured, thinking, Gerry – of course. Their eyes met, blue on blue, and he looked concerned, uncertain. Sandra nodded. _Thank you_. She didn't know how to reach out, often didn't even know when she wanted to, but this time she was glad Gerry had thought of doing it for her. It was vaguely comforting to remember that she did still have family, even if that family consisted of someone she barely knew.

In the pub someone handed her grapes, those bitter-cold grapes, and she stood at the bar, chewing and swallowing and drinking some variety of white wine. Gerry asked her if she wanted something stronger and she said no. Did she want to sit? Esther, this time.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," she replied calmly, managing to smile at the other woman. She heard her own voice and it sounded fine, strong and clear.

She thought Jack looked disapproving – blaming her for going to India, chiding her for her seeming tranquility, maybe both. It wounds her every time Jack disapproves of something she does or doesn't do, but she always tries not to let him see it. If he doesn't, though, she knows it's because he just isn't looking closely. Sandra is a good cop, bad actress.

Someone else was looking, though. She turned and met Gerry's eyes again. He was close enough that she could smell cigarette smoke mingling with soap on his skin and the bitter he has been drinking.

"You holding up all right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, all right. I'm just – cold." Sandra rubbed her arms as if she were, although it was warm in the pub. "I think I'll be off home." She pushed herself away from the bar.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" he asked so only she could hear. His piercing eyes were unusually solemn. "Go and be home alone?"

She knew her smile was probably grim. "It's what I do best," she said lightly, and then more insistently, "I'm fine. I'll see you three Monday." She stepped back, her gaze now encompassing all three men, Esther, and Emily. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

They were all silent as they watched her walk away, wintry sunlight streaming through the stained glass surrounding the pub's door and casting multi-coloured, inappropriately carnivalesque blobs on her fair hair and skin.

Brian's eyebrows formed such a deep vee that they almost met above his prominent nose. "Don't worry, she says," he muttered darkly.

"She needs some time," replied Jack, who sounded more hopeful than certain.

Gerry said nothing, but he was, perhaps, the most worried of all. As he, Jack, and Emily each finished their drinks and they all went their separate ways – there was no point going back to the office this late in the day, and it wasn't as if they'd been accomplishing anything there anyway – he felt a sense of foreboding he couldn't shake, no matter how many times he told himself he was being ridiculous.

There was something in Sandra's eyes, nestled beneath her calm demeanor, that he had never seen there before. He couldn't dismiss the dark suspicion that something unprecedented was about to happen.

Everyone has a breaking point, and he feared his governor had reached hers. Sandra Pullman – tough, fierce, resilient Sandra – was going to break, and no one was going to be by to pick up the pieces.


	14. The Grapes of Wrath II

_A/N: I've been a bit hesitant to post this part, so many thanks to Freythefrog for giving me the little push I needed to get this up. I hope it all makes sense in context. _

**The Grapes of Wrath: Part II**

During the afternoon and evening Gerry had thought a hundred, a thousand, times of calling Sandra, or even driving over to her flat to check that she was all right. She wouldn't appreciate the intrusion, he told himself. He considered calling Jack, asking if _he_ had checked in with her. It somehow felt as if that should have been her former boss's place.

A little after ten his mobile went, and for a few seconds he thought just maybe –

But no. "Brian," he answered after having checked the phone's display.

"Gerry, have you spoken to Sandra?"

"No," he replied, attempting to sound much more insouciant than he felt. "Why?"

"I'm concerned is all, but I don't feel quite right ringing her. Might be a disturbance, you know." He lowered his voice. "I seem to have exhausted Esther's patience. She's already gone up to bed."

"I'm sure the governor's all right," said Gerry, who wasn't sure at all.

"I just feel so bloody useless," Brian returned. "I didn't tell you, but on the day her mother died, Strickland asked me if I wanted to be the one to tell Sandra, once we had finally tracked her down." He paused. "I said no. I couldn't do it, Gerry." He sounded crushingly guilty. "I should've done, though. Bloody cowardly."

"Don't beat yourself up, mate." Gerry paced a few feet behind his favourite chair. "Listen, I'll ring Jack, and let you know if I find anything out."

Jack answered so quickly and sounded so irritated to hear Gerry's voice that the ex-sergeant immediately knew his friend, too, was hoping to hear from Sandra.

"You haven't talked to her either, then," Gerry said without preamble.

Jack's sigh was drawn out. "I've rung twice. She's not answering."

Gerry rubbed his weary eyes and made a snap decision. "I think I'll go over to hers in the morning, just see she's all right. She can get mad if she wants to. So I'll be late in."

When Jack spoke again he sounded relieved. "That's not the worst idea you've ever had, Gerry. Tell her hello for us. See you tomorrow."

When Gerry was, indeed, nearly two hours late to work on Friday morning, and when he removed his coat, hung it up, readjusted his shirt sleeves, and sat down behind his desk without a word of greeting, Jack and Brian assumed it was because he'd been to Sandra's to check on her.

But he hadn't.

He had, however, seen Sandra. And he had just passed perhaps the strangest twelve hours of his life since his cousin Terry conned him into dropping a tab at a Stones gig on a memorable August night in 1966.

Fifteen minutes after he had rung off with Jack, Gerry could stand the suspense no longer. He dialed Sandra's number, muttering, "Feel free to bite my head off if I wake you."

He didn't expect her to answer. Even less did he expect her to greet him, "Gerry – I was just going to ring you."

He pondered this unexpected pronouncement. "You okay, gov?"

"Yeah." She paused, and he heard the wind and traffic noises coming over the line. An ambulance siren wailed, and it took him a couple of seconds to realise he was hearing the shriek twice, once through his double-glazed windows, and again over the phone.

"Sandra, where are you?" he demanded, looking out at the dark street in vain.

"Opposite." She sounded reluctant, ashamed, smaller somehow. "I – I'm sitting in my car."

"Opposite my flat?" he clarified, and yes, now that he knew he was looking for it, he could just make out the familiar shape of her car parked across the street. "How long have you been there?"

Her voice shrank even more. "Maybe twenty minutes, twenty-five."

Gerry hesitated. "Would you, uh, like to come in?" Under the circumstances the question seemed ridiculous, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Yeah."

He opened the door and stood on the step, and only then did she actually get out of the car and walk across the street. As soon as he saw her in motion, Gerry's first question was answered: without a doubt, Sandra was stone-cold sober.

She stopped a few feet away and cautiously sought his eyes. "Hi," she said simply. "I know it's late."

"It's not that late." He stepped aside, gesturing. "Come in."

"Thanks." She let him take her red coat, and he saw that she had changed clothes. Her soft, worn jeans were frayed at the cuffs; black and white trainers peeked out from beneath. Her hair hung wavy and a little unruly, as if she'd showered and let it dry naturally, and her skin was scrubbed shiny clean. The lack of makeup somehow made her look simultaneously younger and older.

In short, she looked exhausted and vulnerable and devastating.

Sandra sat on the sofa, slipped her shoes off, and curled her feet under her, as if she wasn't planning on moving for a while. Good. Gerry was perfectly content to have her right there where he could keep an eye on her, even if she'd murder him for saying as much.

"Drink?"

"Yes, please." At her immediate response he opened the cabinet, held up the bottle of whisky she'd given him, and she nodded. He poured a generous amount, figuring she deserved it. After pouring a more conservative measure for himself he joined her, placing himself at the opposite end of the sofa, just as he'd done on Christmas.

Sandra sipped her drink slowly, contemplative. She didn't seem inclined to talk, so Gerry let her be.

She had finished half the whisky in her tumbler before she looked at him and said, "It's Thursday."

"Yeah, it is." He smiled very slightly. "I don't suppose you're hungry?"

"No." She held the glass up to the light. "This will do fine. Just keep it coming."

_Noted_, he thought. So his governor had deemed his flat a safe place to come and get pissed. The thought pleased him.

She finished her drink and, as she poured herself another, curled her toes into his carpet. Her toenails were painted dark red, almost black, and Gerry stared at her bare feet until he shook himself. No, he didn't have a foot fetish; but he so rarely got to see this simple part of his friend. Detective Superintendent Pullman was normally brushed and polished and high-heel-shod.

"You were right," she said, her back to him, and he could see that she had squared her shoulders. "I didn't want to be by myself. And I didn't know where else to go."

It was hardly a compliment, but Gerry knew how much the admission cost her. "It's good you came here."

She shivered violently and suddenly and he jumped up, although he wasn't sure why. He reached out tentatively to touch her shoulders, but then let his hands fall at his sides. "You all right?"

Sandra turned around. "I'm just cold." She laughed bitterly at some joke to which he wasn't privy, and he thought she looked desperately unhappy.

The flat was warm already, but he turned up the radiator anyway. "Do you want a snack?" he asked as she sat again and pulled a throw pillow into her lap – Yes, Gerry has throw pillows. "I have cheese and fruit – grapes, I think –"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, God, not grapes!" The exclamation was so vehement that it caused Gerry to raise his eyebrows, and Sandra flushed. "Just not grapes," she reiterated mildly, glancing down at her fingernails. One of them, Gerry noted, needed to be filed. "I'm really not hungry anyway."

"No worries." He said down again, not knowing what else to do. Gerry Standing had entertained many, many women in the various flats he had inhabited over the past forty years, but never in a situation like this.

As if sensing his discomfort, she laid her fingers on the crook of his elbow. "Telly," she instructed quietly, and he was only too happy to comply.

Gerry found an old movie and dropped the remote between them. This would do, whatever it was. He spotted a Marx Brother. _Duck Soup_, maybe, or _A Night at the Opera_. It didn't matter. Neither of them was going to watch it. Sandra just wanted something to stare at, something to provide background accompaniment for her thoughts, wherever they were.

She stuck with the whisky, drinking it steadily and silently. "I shouldn't have gone," she finally said, and her pronunciation was looser than he had ever heard it before. He didn't have to ask where she shouldn't have gone. "I should've been there."

Gerry took her left hand, which was lying inert on the cushion between them, and squeezed it gently. "You wouldn't have been with her anyway," he pointed out rationally, knowing it would do nothing to assuage her guilt. "You would've been at work. By the time you got there, she wouldn't even have –"

"I would have known," she interrupted. It would've been nice to say good-bye to one of her parents. And then, fiercely: "I did love her."

"Course you did. She was your mum." His thumb rubbed lightly over her knuckles.

_I think I hated her too_, she thought.

Sandra yanked her hand away, stood up – the slightest bit unsteady by now – and got herself another drink. "We never liked one another very much."

"That's not a requirement for families. It's just a bonus if it happens – you know, organically."

Gerry Standing was talking about things happening organically? When had life become so strange?

She moved the remote before she sat again, slightly closer than before. "How do you do it, Gerry?" She propped her elbow on the back of the sofa and rested her head on her hand, the alcohol loosening her joints as well as her tongue. "Why do people find you so bloody likeable, even your ex-wives?"

"You don't," he retorted lightly.

She actually smiled briefly. "You've grown on me. Bit like a fungus."

"Very flattering comparison." He lifted his glass, toasting her ironically. "Cheers."

"I'm a bitch." She tipped more of the liquid down her throat, easily, as if the burn had worn off.

"It's one of your more endearing qualities," he said, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"My mother was a bitch too." Sandra shifted, pulling her feet beneath her again. "I'm just like her. She always thought that I was like my father – that I had actually become him and rejected her. She hated the job, hated the way I do it." She lolled against the cushions and Gerry wondered if she had eaten anything today other than the handful of grapes Esther gave her at the pub. "She realised near the end, though."

He knew he shouldn't ask. Gerry already felt like a voyeur, even though she was in his home, sitting on his sofa, drinking his booze. Sandra didn't talk to him like this. She advised, she ordered, but she didn't _tell_ him things, personal things. He knew that, in the cold clear light of morning, she would regret this, and she'd make him regret it as well.

Bugger it. She was here now, and in need of a good listener.

"Realised what?"

"That I'm her, not him," Sandra replied simply.

Grace had been eating grapes, one of the few foods she could still manage, although the process was agonizingly slow. Sandra had sat and watched and it physically pained her, so much that she'd made the mistake of trying to assist. Her mother had used the feeble strength of her less affected left side to swat at her daughter's hand. Her speech was distorted and laborious, but "Stop" was easy enough to understand. _Stop. No. Don't_. Grace hadn't lost any of those words.

"Happy Christmas, Mum," Sandra had said as she stepped into the hospital-style private room. "Well, Christmas Eve."

Only Grace's eyes had moved in response, but their clarity told Sandra that her mother was fully present. Sandra settled herself on the rigid chair by the bedside and kept up the fiction of one-sided conversation for several minutes, and then made the disastrous effort to help Grace with the grapes. Her mother's fingers had barely grazed her arm, but Sandra jumped back as if she'd been shoved by a world-champion wrestler. She folded her arms in her lap, well aware that she would react the same way in Grace's position. It would feel like an insult, an indignity.

"Mum," she began decidedly, "I've decided to cancel my holiday. I'll go some other time, maybe." She offered a smile. Grace's eyes narrowed.

It took Grace time to assemble the sounds she wanted to produce, and Sandra did a few mental gymnastics to interpret them. "Don't need your help."

Sandra reminded herself that she was no longer fifteen years old and refrained, barely, from rolling her eyes. "I could keep you company."

Grace's look was almost comical; she needed no words to communicate her incredulity. Sandra sighed. Her mother had a point: they'd never exactly been the type of mother and daughter who sat around gossiping and braiding one another's hair. But she looked at her mother's frail form in the narrow bed, physically so vulnerable, and felt a quick, stabbing pain.

The reply came quickly, according to their new time-scale, with zero possibility of misinterpretation. "No. You go."

Was Grace absolutely sure?

Yes, sure.

Was this a test she'd set up, waiting for Sandra to fail it? (All right, she shouldn't have asked that; but old habits died hard, or not at all, in her case.)

"Too late," Grace responded, which put a full stop to her daughter's queries. That statement could be interpreted a few different ways, but Sandra thought it was better not to spend too much time thinking about any of them.

They sat – well, Sandra sat, and Grace lay – in silence. Happy, happy holidays from the Pullman family.

The quiet drew out to such length that Sandra started like a sleeper waking when her mother spoke. "Sorry, Sandra."

The growling "r" sound was beyond her grasp, but Sandra understood her mother readily enough. She leaned forward in the chair, bringing herself a bit closer to Grace – physically, at least. The older woman had been right when she'd said the two of them were too far apart to grow close at this late stage. They'd both tried after Grace had moved into the home, but not, Sandra had to admit, very hard on either side. They were too different, and too fundamentally alike.

"That's all right, Mum," she said quickly, not sure what the apology was for, but wanting to soothe her mother. Wanting to escape this room; needing to stay.

"No." Grace's left hand moved restlessly atop the bedclothes, picking at a snag in the cotton threads of the sheet. Her hands were so thin that the delicate veins looked like blue and purple bruises beneath the skin. "You're like me. Not like Gordon."

Their eyes locked as Sandra dragged the chair as near the bed railing as she could. "I'm like you?" she repeated questioningly, and then with assurance, "I _am_ like you, Mum."

Grace was silent again for several minutes. Speaking exhausted and frustrated her, the words her mind formed so perfectly refusing to trip from her stiff, clumsy tongue.

"Cold."

Sandra automatically reached for the blanket across the foot of the bed, but her mother's emphatic "No" halted her motion. She turned inquiring crystal eyes upon Grace and waited.

"Cold. You. Me." The pauses between the words grew longer as Grace grew more fatigued, but she struggled valiantly to express her thought. "Not like other people."

Before Sandra could respond with a quip, Grace added, "Something missing," and her daughter froze.

The second stroke had reduced Grace's lexicon to the essential words; listening to her was like reading post-modern poetry. Sandra supplied subjects, verbs, nouns as needed, but as she continued looking into her mother's eyes, she knew that, for once in her life, she understood the other woman completely. With the blanks filled in, Grace said, "We don't feel things as deeply as other people do. We're solitary, independent. We don't _need_ anyone. You get that from me, Sandra, and for that I _am_ sorry."

She'd left feeling like she'd been punched in the stomach, and as she sat behind the wheel of her car, safely in the car park, she'd been overwhelmed by unexpected sobs, harsh and tearless.

"Sandra?"

From his tone she realized that Gerry must have called her name repeatedly. Sandra jerked herself fully upright, blinking, and was suddenly aware that her eyes were filled with tears when they overflowed to track hotly down her cheeks. She swiped at them, infuriated.

Gerry was standing over her, his hand on her shoulder. "Let me get you something to eat." She shook her head. "A glass of water, then."

She let him bring the water, but left it untouched on the floor. She thought maybe she'd been talking, but had no idea what she might have said, and couldn't seem to summon the embarrassment she knew she should feel. She was falling apart in front of this man she bossed, for Christ's sake. If she lost his respect, she lost whatever control she had over the squad. Lose UCOS, lose everything. How pathetic was she?

She needed her mother not to be right about her. Sandra knew she was drunk, but she saw that very clearly.

"Right, no more." Like a tired child, she didn't protest when Gerry took her glass away. She could do nothing but sit there, sunk into the sofa cushions. "It's two in the morning, Sandra. I can take you home, or you can stay here."

He could've called her a taxi, too, but he was unwilling to let her out of his sight like this.

She looked up slowly, as if struggling to focus. "I don't want to go home," she said certainly, sounding a bit more like herself, albeit a drunken self.

Gerry could work with that. "Fair enough. You can stay here." She looked directly into his eyes, blue on blue, and he couldn't read what he saw there. "The guest room is made up," he continued, "or you can have my room."

He wasn't sure why he'd offered, and wasn't prepared when she quietly responded, "Your room."

He had her precede him up the stairs, hovering behind her to offer support that, fortunately, she didn't need. At least his room was relatively tidy, he thought, refusing to allow himself to dwell on her reasons for choosing to be enfolded in the slept-in sheet and duvet on his bed, which smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and could do with a washing, instead of the pristine linens in the guest room. She'd never been in his bedroom before – why would she? – and Gerry tried to see it through her eyes: sand-coloured walls, chocolate and golden duvet, slightly rumpled sheets peeking out from beneath. Solid wooden furniture. Presentable, at least.

Sandra moved with the unpredictable gait of the truly inebriated. Gerry had never seen her like this. She was always so controlled, so careful; he had only seen the façade slip when she was infuriated. This was different.

She wasn't sobbing or hysterical, but then, she never would have been. It was inconceivable. She was instead raw, and it made him uncomfortable, made him want to take her straight home or pull her into his arms and hold her and pat her hair as if she were a child – He wasn't sure which. Both, maybe.

Businesslike, she unzipped her jeans and shimmied them down her legs, and Gerry instantly told himself not to look, but he was Gerry and he was human and he did, even as he prayed to be spontaneously struck blind. _Shit, Standing, get out get out GET OUT_.

"Right," he said instead, lifting the covers up for her as if she really were a child. He was, essentially, tucking her in the way he'd done for his daughters times out of number, except of course this was Sandra and it was nothing like that and he was in the shit very deeply.

She sat down on the bed, unself-conscious, one foot atop the other, and Gerry couldn't breathe. He was afraid to touch her anywhere, even the safe territory of her arm or her shoulder, so he edged away to arm's length, more awkward with a woman in his bed than he had been since – ever, actually, because he had no bloody idea what to do.

"Do you need anything?" he asked politely, the good host.

She stared back at him, unblinking, still expressionless, and Gerry thought, _Sandra Pullman has finally succeeded in emasculating me – simply by forgetting that I'm a reasonably normal, reasonably healthy man and looking at me like some sodding eunuch._

But the rest of him, the most of him, knew he'd been right earlier at the pub. What he was seeing was Sandra going to pieces, in her own, unique, complicated way, and he felt simultaneously like the luckiest and most certainly doomed individual on the planet, because somehow she had chosen him to whom to reveal this part of herself. Yes, perhaps out of sheer desperation, but she was _here_. Seven years ago – hell, seven weeks ago – he would never even have imagined it. He was still good old Out-Standing Standing, a naughty boy but not a bastard. She was still his boss, his friend – his very dear friend – tough, brilliant, cutting and soothing and then pouring salt into the wound. But tonight the universe had tilted sideways.

She didn't answer his question, but finally slid beneath the covers and dropped her head onto the pillow, the side of the bed where he slept, and he allowed himself a breath of relief.

"Gerry?"

"Give a shout if you need anything."

She stared and stared at him, and he finally snapped off the bedside lamp because he couldn't stand it any longer.

He went into the spare bedroom, but only stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, contemplating the floor. He was too restless to sleep. Instead he went back to the lounge, belatedly thinking that he should've gotten his pyjamas from his room, or at least a blanket, and sank down on the sofa, clicking the television on. He adjusted the volume so that it was an indistinct drone, stretched out, slipped off his shoes and socks, and crossed his ankles as if he didn't have a care in the world.

_As if._

He opened his eyes to the same flickering of the light from the telly, impossibly certain that it was still the middle of the night, maybe half three. A more distinct sound interrupted the low hum. His name.

Suddenly fully awake, he turned and found himself face-to-face with Sandra as she knelt on the carpet. "What is it?" he asked, disorientated. "What's the matter?"

"I'm cold."

This, he thought, was extremely strange. Sandra was nothing if not resourceful. Nicking the duvet from the guest room would hardly have been an insurmountable challenge. "I'll get you a blanket."

"Won't help." He lay stunned, paralysed, as she clambered over him gracelessly, pulling his duvet with her and draping it over both of them. In the space of a few seconds she was pressed against his body, wedged between him and the back of the sofa. One of her legs trapped his as her weight settled half on him.

"Shit, Sandra! What –"

Her mouth descended upon his, cutting off his breath, not to mention his words. She tasted of whisky and salt, and he reflexively clutched her upper arms, squeezing convulsively before his brain kicked in and he forcibly lifted her away. She fought him, not giving up easily, kissing him the same way she'd kissed him outside their local weeks ago, as if she was furious and needed to prove a point.

This time he was fairly certain her anger had nothing to do with him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He wedged her away, not wanting to hurt her, afraid his fingers would bruise her shoulders where he was gripping them so tightly, but he was hot and cold with panic. "Sandra, love, what the hell are you doing?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she otherwise ignored the misplaced endearment. "You've been insisting for eight years that you know all about what I'm doing," she retorted acidly.

"Yeah, I may, but you don't." He managed finally to sit up, pulling her with him because he was unable to disentangle himself. "If you did, you bleedin' well wouldn't be doin' it. You're pissed and you're upset and you _don't_ know what you're doing." His words were harsh, but his hold on her gentled as he spoke, his thumbs smoothing over the tense muscles in her neck.

Her eyes bored into his. "Tell me you don't want me," she challenged, a hair short of overtly hostile.

Oh, hell. He might end up damned for his virtues, but he wasn't going to lie to her. He swallowed hard. "Not like this," he said very seriously, side-stepping the direct question in a way that would've been transparent to a two-year-old – and he was talking to a trained detective.

That seemed to sober her up a little. Her eyes focused more sharply. Gerry watched as a flicker of the usual Sandra returned, wavering somewhere behind her irises, and she looked embarrassed, distressed – scared, even.

His shoulders sank with the first rush of cautious relief. "It's all right," he reassured her, wrapping an arm around her, no longer afraid to touch her, and pressing her cheek against his rumpled cotton shirt. "You're all right."

He preferred not being able to see her eyes as her body jerked in a single, silent sob before going completely still. Even when she was behaving wildly out of character, that moment was so perfectly her, so Sandra Pullman.

"I'm cold," she whispered, her breath whispering damply against his skin through the fabric, and he was pretty damn sure she was talking about something other than the coolness of her skin on this frigid January morning.

"Come on," he said, helping her briskly to her feet. "You need sleep. It'll be better in the morning."

This time he led her up the stairs, then watched her lie down on the bed and covered her with the duvet he carried bunched in his arms. "There," he said when she was still, as if he were cleaning up the mess, sweeping her fear and hurt and grief under the rug. As if tomorrow morning everything would be exactly the same as it had in all the time they'd known one another, when he knew things would never be exactly the same again, even if they both lived to be 120.

He retreated to the guest room, convinced he wouldn't sleep a wink.

When he awoke in the watery morning light, well after he should've been sitting behind his wobbly desk in the UCOS office, she was gone.


	15. The Long Weird Thursday

_**Author's note: Gentle readers, I have been, quite frankly, thrilled by your response to this story. To everyone who has been reading, and especially to everyone who has been reviewing and keeping me posting, thank you! I never imagined such an enthusiastic reception of my ramblings. Here, finally, is the last chapter; it's a long one, but I decided to post it all in one big chunk. I hope you enjoy.**_

**XIII. The Long Weird Thursday**

Sandra was having what she thought might truly be the worst week of her life – which was saying something, considering that she'd just buried her mother _last_ week.

_Sorry, Mum. I can't even grieve properly. If it's any consolation, and it most likely is, you win. Your daughter is cold – just like you. _

Sandra sat at her desk, staring vacantly at her email inbox, trying to pretend she wasn't watching the minutes tick past at the bottom right corner of the computer screen, proving that it only felt like time had stopped. Less than ten minutes separated her from 5:00. Thank Christ. She'd never been a nine-to-fiver, but the work day would be over in minutes. If she didn't feel so damn crappy, she'd be tempted to throw a one-person party to celebrate. Fortunately she'd left her confetti and disco ball back in 1977.

Instead the impulse to race home to the safety of her flat, change into her pyjamas, and order pizza, as she had done every other night this week, was almost irresistible. She supposed that was a party of sorts: a pity party.

_Bad form, Pullman._

She knew what she had to do, even if she had allowed herself to pretend for days that she could avoid it.

She had stumbled through these four working days in some sort of zombified stupor, numb with – What? Horror? Embarrassment? Grief? Some seething mixture of those. She and the boys had a case on, and although Sandra had been going through the motions, she didn't give a shit and the guys knew it.

Her stomach churned, and she felt physically ill. She might have vomited if she'd eaten anything all day.

She looked back down at the time and date stamp on the screen. It stared unblinkingly back, assuring her of the unavoidable truth.

16:54.

16:54, _Thursday_.

In the outer office Brian propped his feet on the edge of his desk and rolled his chair toward Gerry. Jack's desk chair was empty, its diurnal occupant off making a nuisance of himself among the West End's criminal element. "Do you think Sandra's been acting at all strangely this week?"

Gerry looked up from whatever he was typing. "Normally I'd say yeah," he admitted readily. Denial was a rookie mistake. "But for someone who just lost her mum? No."

Brian digested that in silence, looking unconvinced.

Gerry stared at his computer screen, now typing furiously. ASDFGHJZXCVBNM. _Very insightful, Standing._

Sandra had been doing her job, unruffled to all outward appearances, trundling her colleagues through the motions of the investigation. If she was on auto-pilot, who could have blamed her?

Gerry wondered how long that could go on before Brian or Jack keyed into the fact that she had studiously avoided being alone with Gerry or even directly addressing him with anything more than "Gerry, you go" or "Make those calls, Gerry."

Her office door opened and she leaned on the outer doorknob. "Home time," she announced, officially depriving the Met of three minutes of its employees' paid labour. "Gerry, a word."

"See you tomorrow," Gerry heard Brian say, but he was too focused on walking toward the gov's office to answer. He didn't know for certain if he was relieved or terrified. She wouldn't sack him, he was confident – that would be unethical – but that really seemed like a secondary consideration. Gerry was much more concerned about the unique, fragile friendship that had developed between them during the past four months.

"Close the door," she murmured, but he already was, without being told. She risked a look directly at him, forced herself to meet his eyes, blue on blue. He stood inside the door, waiting patiently.

Gerry seemed calm. Sandra could barely even look at him. The balance of power had shifted, and she didn't like it at all. "We should talk," she said evenly, trying to get her feet back under her, psychologically. "But not here."

Yes, they _should_ talk. What Sandra wanted to do, though, was crawl under her desk and stay there, preferably until she reached OAP status. Alas, she wasn't Alice, and this certainly wasn't Wonderland, and she had to suck it up. It was that or pack her career in and become a professional dominatrix – and latex irritated her skin.

"Drink?" she asked abruptly.

"Pub?" Gerry returned monosyllable for monosyllable.

"No," she responded hastily, and he understood that she wanted to go somewhere she'd be unlikely to be recognised. Fair enough.

They walked to the car park in stilted silence, which seemed to be the new norm.

"I'll drive," Sandra volunteered.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

They ended up in a fairly generic wine bar, somewhere with lighting dim enough that Sandra didn't feel as if her humiliation was on public display (since she couldn't avoid giving Gerry his own private viewing), and where neither of them knew a soul. She ordered sancerre; he drank pinot.

After they'd been served, he waited for her to begin, wanting her to feel as comfortable as possible, which was obviously not very. For the first time in all the years he had known her, Sandra's cool self-possession, her assurance, seemed to have abandoned her.

Gerry could afford to wait as long as she wanted, because he was dismally certain he knew what she was going to say. It would be something along the lines of "Take last Thursday to the grave or I will kill you and no one will find your body, and, by the way, I never want to see you outside UCOS again, not even across a crowded room."

She moved her wine glass, fidgeted with her napkin, stared at the tabletop, until finally Gerry could bear it no longer. Instinctively he grabbed her hand as it wandered nervously over the tabletop, but released it almost instantly as she stiffened.

"Sandra," he said firmly, needing her really to hear him, "it's okay, yeah? Don't worry. It's okay."

She looked up, meeting his steady gaze, and for a couple of seconds she seemed frozen, her wide eyes mutely pleading for understanding. "I'm so sorry," she blurted, and it was not exactly the beginning Gerry had expected. "I'm so sorry. I'm – Christ, Gerry, I'm mortified." Her eyes dropped and her head followed, her forehead dipping to rest on her fist and her blonde hair swinging across her cheeks, hiding her face.

Gerry gave her a minute. Hell, he gave himself a minute, too, as his mind raced and his tongue tried to catch up.

"I'm flattered." He paused, letting that sink in. "Extremely flattered. I'm not blind, am I? I _have_ looked in a mirror in the last decade."

She lifted her head. "Don't." He thought, though, that she seemed marginally less uncomfortable, and he felt the tension in his shoulders relax the tiniest bit. He had struck the right chord, for once.

Sandra tipped her glass up to her lips and took a careful swallow. Having steeled herself, she was able to met Gerry's eyes. "Can you forget it?" she asked, hopeful. "Can you forget last Thursday night happened?"

"The whole night?" He shook his head decisively, hoping he wasn't making a huge error in judgment. "No way, gov." Sandra's eyes went so wide that he was afraid she might strain something, and he grabbed her hand again. Her fingers were cool. "What I remember is this: my good friend trusted me enough to come to me when she was having a hell of a rough time and needed –"

"A shoulder to cry on?" Sandra suggested, her lips quirking in scorn.

"I was going to say a sofa to sit on and some high-quality booze to get a skinful of, but have it your way."

She almost managed a smile. "You know what I meant, Gerry."

"No, actually, I don't." He tossed back a mouthful of his red wine. "I just told you all I remember. I suppose I might have already forgotten a few details."

"Just like that?" she demanded, dubious.

"Me memory ain't what it used to be." He grinned, willing to do anything to put her at ease and preserve their working relationship, and hoping against hope that he could do something to hold their friendship together as well.

She opened her mouth as if to ask a question, and then closed it. Some things it was better not to know.

He was still holding her fingers loosely, and now he squeezed them. "I don't want to lose this," he said simply, going for broke.

They regarded one another for a long moment, her hand lying inert in his. "No," she agreed eventually, drawing her hand away and folding it in her lap. "I need you at UCOS."

_Shit_, Gerry thought simply, left to contemplate the dual withdrawals.

_Now is not the time_, the voice of reason informed him with unusual clarity. _Leave it alone_.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised lightly. He waited a few minutes, clinked the rim of his glass against hers, and pointedly changed the subject, asking her a minor question about their current case. He watched her as she slowly seemed to unfold, to breathe into herself and fill her own body. She wasn't at ease, but she was willing to trust Gerry to keep her secret safe. Trust Sandra to find a way simultaneously to push him away and pay him a compliment.

They drank – two glasses of wine each, no more – and shared small plates and talked, mostly about work. Sandra didn't let on, but she saw how careful her companion was being, how kind, and contemplated the possibility that she'd made the right choice last week when she'd gotten in her car, unsure of her destination, and found herself at Gerry's. She couldn't have been safer anywhere else.

When had her life become this bizarre? Not that she was complaining, exactly. No.

She offered to drive him home instead of back to work to pick up the Stag. It wasn't all that far, but she still found time to grow increasingly quiet and intense, and Gerry began to get nervous all over again.

"Thanks, Sandra," he said as she pulled up down the block from his flat and shifted into park. "Safe home, yeah?"

"Wait," she said abruptly as he reached to open the door. He heard the door locks click into place and automatically looked back at her, his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Just for a minute, would you?" she grumbled impatiently, but a sheepish pink washed gently over her cheeks. As he watched her face, her teeth sank into her lower lip, pressing hard before her tongue came out to swipe the white indentation away. "I – There's something else I need you to understand. Well, two things."

She had his undivided attention.

Sandra twisted her upper body to face Gerry and tugged absently at the shoulder strap of her seatbelt. "I'm really – grateful, Gerry, for your… friendship."

Gerry was pretty certain he felt something crack inside him, and he vaguely hoped he had managed not to wince. There was humiliation, after all, and then there was _humiliation_. Here it came at last: the brush-off. The tried and true _I-think-of-you-as-an-older-brother-and-I-never-meant-to-give-you-the-wrong-idea_ speech. He didn't know how he could stand it coming from Sandra, but stand it he would.

He waited impassively. Well, he hoped he was impassive. He could really have done with a cigarette. "And the other thing?" Gerry asked, eager to get this over.

She didn't answer, just looked persistently at him, as she had done a week ago. He could hear her breathing inside the quiet car; it was slightly fast.

"After last week," she began, looking intently into his eyes, "I don't want you to think – I never intended –"

His hand shot up, palm outward. "I know," he said quickly, hoping to stave off the worst of The Talk. "I understand, Sandra."

Her forehead puckered slightly. "Do you?" she demanded, and Gerry barely had time to wonder whether he really did or not before she leaned across the gear shift, curved her palm behind his neck, and kissed him.

She was insistent only until she was sure he didn't intend to jerk away, and then her mouth softened, slowed, lingered, and Gerry's suddenly feeble brain reeled. The only thought he could grasp was that if this was an expression of gratitude, he wanted to devote his life to making Sandra very, very grateful.

She pulled away too soon but didn't go far, her bright eyes only inches from his so that he could see into them clearly. Her lips glistened and now they were both breathing fast. Gerry heard a sound that he recognised as his own puppyish whimper, and Sandra, to his eternal relief, didn't even crack a smile. He couldn't let her go just like that. What if she never came back? He followed her instinctively, probably comically, but she still didn't laugh, and he finally got the chance to sink his fingers into that wonderful golden hair. He tugged her back so that they were nose to nose, and her eyes stayed wide open, wary, challenging, expectant.

He froze for a few seconds, his brain scrambling desperately to catch up with his thumping heart and figure out what the hell she wanted, racing against time. Her eyes narrowed and Gerry desperately thought, _Screw it_, because he was terrified and exhilarated and knew exactly what _he_ wanted.

A sharp, playful tug at her loose cardigan sweater made her palm slip where it was braced against the leather upholstery. Their noses bumped, hard, but his hand cradling her skull kept her close. He paused for several seconds, not exactly hesitating but – savouring. Gerald Standing was a man who liked to savour fine things: food, wine, women.

This woman in particular.

It certainly wasn't as if he'd never thought about it before: kissing the governor. Especially in the early days, years ago, he'd flirted outrageously, testing the limits, pushing the boundaries. She'd always pushed back, usually with a cutting remark and one of those sudden, impish, mega-watt smiles. Thrust and parry.

Then things had begun to change, as Gerry began to see Sandra Pullman not just as the Boss – an abstract quantity, a role – but for what she was. _Who_ she was. Exceptional. Rare. A colleague who had slowly infiltrated every corner of his life and become hugely important. It wasn't as if Gerry had ever made a conscious decision; it was simply that he'd long ago realised his unusual relationship with Sandra – unusual for Gerry, who'd spent far too much of his life, he thought now, evaluating every woman he met as a potential shagging candidate – to mess it up for something as insignificant as a go between the sheets.

Oh, sure, he still imagined it once in a while, but it clearly fell into the category of wild, impossible fantasy, the sort of thing you allowed yourself to daydream about once in a while because you knew it would never happen, and because you weren't at all sure you'd even want it to. It was safe.

This, he knew, was the antithesis of safe.

Somehow, though, they'd already crossed a line; maybe Sandra had crossed it and dragged him over. At any rate, knew exactly what he wanted right then, especially since he was reasonably certain that no matter what he did at that point, he was already in very serious trouble.

He was surprisingly gentle, his lips brushing back and forth across hers. His hold was loose, so she could easily have pulled away if she wanted to. She didn't. After a moment he allowed himself to deepen the contact and felt a tiny shiver run through her frame.

Sandra Pullman was kissing him back, and whatever might have been motivating her, Gerry was damned sure it wasn't pity this time. In response to his slight pressure her lips parted obligingly. This was terrifying and she was warm and willing and delicious and _Please don't let me wake up right now._

He weaved his fingers through her hair again, pulling her as close as he could, which was not close enough. It was difficult to reach someone with the gear shift between you. Gerry heard the tell-tale click of her safety belt finally being released and Sandra surged toward him. His fingers tingled at the thought of touching her, of exploring the warmth of her skin and the curve of her waist, but a glimmer of rationality suggested that he step back and let her lead. He was unsure of the rules of this game they were playing, so he contented himself for the moment with running his free hand lightly up her sweater-clad arm to her neck and then to her jaw. She tilted her face into the caress, rubbing against him like a kitten. _(Kittens have claws, Gerry.)_

Right, that was it. He wasn't about to grope her in the front seat of the car like a hormonal adolescent gagging for a quick shag.

As he pulled back slightly Sandra made a low sound of protest before going completely still. He drew away enough to see her and waited patiently. Her eyes were closed, her forehead puckered slightly, and he could practically see her thoughts racing. Part of her had to be thinking, _Oh shit oh shit oh shit_. Part of him certainly was.

"Sandra." Her name came out as a statement, not a question.

"Yes," she answered in the same tone. She opened her eyes, blinked once, and met his gaze. They must both have been uncertain, but the look they shared was fixed, steady on both sides.

"Do you want to come inside?" His fingertips swept her hair across her forehead, unwilling to lose the physical contact, afraid that if he did the connection between them would be severed. His head told him it should be; other parts of his anatomy immediately staged a violent protest. Still, "It's probably a terrible idea," he added.

Her smile was small, amused, and secretive. "Probably," she agreed with aplomb. Just as quickly she grew serious. "We both know what's going to happen if I come in."

"Jesus, I hope so." His thumb dragged across the line of her jaw and then pressed against her lips.

She chuckled abruptly, pulling back. "And tomorrow, Gerry? What happens tomorrow?"

He knew her well enough to understand what the right answer was. "Nothing," he said simply.

The small smile returned – she was pleased – but her eyes remained serious. "You'd be willing to forget all about it?" she challenged. "No double entendres, no smart comments, no _looks_ –"

"I feel my memory deteriorating every second, Sandra," he returned, and he wasn't just mouthing the right words. He wanted this woman more than he'd wanted anything in a very long time, but he _didn't_ want to screw up the balance of his work, his friendships – his whole life, really, when it had taken him sixty years to achieve it.

She considered for a few seconds and then nodded once. Her decision made, she reached for the door handle.

Sandra preceded Gerry up the sidewalk to his building, striding confidently, as assured as ever. "Come on, then," she said sharply, all business, as she stepped aside for him to unlock the door.

All of five seconds later she had him backed against the inside of that door, the softness of her body pressing into him offsetting the unforgiving surface behind him. Sandra was smiling against his mouth and his hands were roaming over all the parts of her he could reach beneath her heavy winter coat, and Gerry thought that yes, it was vastly preferable this way, without gear shifts and seatbelts.

It certainly wasn't the morning light that woke Gerry Friday morning. As soon as his eyelids lifted he knew it was another grey, dismal January day, which was hardly surprising. The events of the last twelve hours might have rocked his little world on its axis, but he didn't have the hubris to expect them to have changed the London weather.

Waking up on the wrong side of the bed, literally, was a bit disconcerting. Gerry now knew that he and Sandra habitually slept on the same side, and last night he'd let her have it. He'd been feeling magnanimous. The depression her head had left on his pillow was still there, but, despite the fact that Gerry's alarm clock wouldn't sound for another thirty-eight minutes, Sandra had vanished. He clinched his teeth, thinking that he wasn't overly fond of this encore of her disappearing act.

But no. Perhaps it had been some small sound that had interrupted his sleep, some indication of human activity. He strained his ears and caught the sound of water still dripping in the shower. A cupboard opened in the kitchen; coffee was brewing.

Gerry felt a smile spread over his face. He should've known. Running away was not Sandra Pullman's style.

The kitchen was familiar enough after all these years, but Sandra had never moved around it by herself as she was doing this morning, opening and closing cupboards, locating coffee and a mug and a fresh pack of crumpets. Steam curled up from the hot coffee as she spread butter over the warm, spongy bread, and overhead the floorboards creaked as Gerry moved around his bedroom.

Sandra's stomach fluttered, but she was not in the state of panic she would've predicted, given what she and Gerry – _Gerry Standing, for Christ's sake_ – had done last night. Yes, a voice in some corner of her brain was crying out, _Oh, fuck, Sandra, what have you done, you silly cow?_

But the voice wasn't very loud. The reality was that, as she sat at the kitchen counter, she felt pretty damn good. Pretty normal, only better. So far nothing terrible had happened. The sky hadn't fallen; a plague of locusts hadn't descended. Now if Gerry would come downstairs and act like himself, like a grown-up – her brain stuttered as she wondered whether that was an oxymoron – things might actually work out okay. Maybe even better than okay.

The stairs creaked as Gerry made his way down, appearing in the doorway freshly showered and dressed. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before entering.

"Morning, Sandra."

"Good morning." She chewed and swallowed as he poured himself a nice cuppa. If he thought he was studying her surreptitiously, he wasn't doing a very good job. Surveillance never was Gerry's strong suit.

Sandra looked very collected, very polished and professional, he noted, even in yesterday's clothing. As she ate her breakfast, she seemed as at ease as if she were sitting behind her desk. Attempting to feel out the situation, he found himself at a distinct disadvantage.

"Did you sleep all right?" he asked, because he had to say something.

Her eyebrows rove above the rim of her coffee cup. "Just fine," she replied after she had swallowed. She was clearly amused. "Listen, I want you to pop round and talk to the local plod at Finsbury Park nick this morning, see if you can get any of the former flight squad to open up about the illustrious Chief Superintendent Albert Mortenson." She popped the last bit of buttery crumpet into her mouth. "You're disturbingly good at that old boys' brigade load of rubbish." She pronounced the word _rubbish_ with evident relish.

Gerry blinked at her. "Yeah, okay," he responded after a moment, none too pleased. He turned away, opened the cupboard and extracted a loaf of bread, which he studied for a moment with his hands on his hips. Suddenly he wheeled back. "No, I'm sorry, Sandra, but I'm just a _bit_ confused." He leveled a look that wasn't quite a glare at her. "Exactly what is going on here?"

Those clear blue eyes stayed on his. "Nothing," she said. "That's what we agreed on."

"Ah. Oh, I see." And he did. He ran his fingers through his hair, nodding. "The Detective Superintendent is in."

She looked down and swallowed, and he saw that at least she wasn't as unaffected as she'd seemed. When her gaze flickered back up to his there was something softer there, more intimate. "Last night was – really nice, Gerry."

"Really nice," he repeated, his hostility ebbing away to be replaced by reluctant amusement. "Oi, Sandra, stop with the flattery. You're embarrassing me."

"Oh, shut it. The very last thing you need is flattery. As if you're not insufferable enough as it is." She grinned, though, and Gerry moved closer.

"Yeah, all right. But it was better than 'nice,' at least from where I was sitting."

She huffed out a small laugh and admitted, "Yes, all right," but when he reached out to touch her hair she trapped his fingers in hers and forced his hand away. "No," she said firmly, deadly serious. "This is morning. Forget last night."

"That's what you want?" he asked evenly. He had promised and would keep his word. He couldn't forget, of course, but he could pretend to, which would have to be good enough. But the truth was that after last night he'd hoped she wouldn't still want him to forget. He really was turning into a pathetic Jessie in his old age.

_Maybe she's just that intense with everyone_, he thought. Jesus, if so, she must have left a series of devastated men in her wake all across England. She was all ice blue eyes and unbearably soft skin and heat.

_Don't think about it, don't think about it_, he told himself, knowing full well that the only chance of success at that would entail a full frontal lobotomy.

Sandra lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "That's just the way it has to be, Gerry. We both forget everything when I walk out of here, or it all goes to shit," she said flatly.

He knew she was right: a spot of willful amnesia, or else everything would change. He nodded once, grimly resolute, and turned away again. Automatically he sliced off two pieces of bread and popped them into the toaster. It would never work, the two of them. _Good morning, Jack_, he imagined himself saying as he sauntered into the office. _Morning, Brian. Do anything interesting last night, chaps? What, me? Oh, I've just had fabulous sex with Sandra. Tea, anyone?_

He heard her move, interrupting his gloomy thoughts, and then felt the warmth of her body behind him. She wasn't actually touching, but was so close that he could feel her breath on his neck. Gerry considered screaming in frustration. Perhaps she'd hit her head whilst she was on holiday in India, and was now suffering from a massive brain injury.

"We both forget what happened," she reiterated, the words tickling his flesh and making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "When you turn up at the office after you go to Finsbury Park, absolutely nothing has changed." _I'm in charge_, she didn't say, because she didn't need to. "But that doesn't mean – It doesn't necessarily mean it can't happen again." She paused, and he knew she was choosing her words carefully. "If we… reach an agreement."

_Holy shit._ There was a God, and He was benevolent. Gerry felt his face split wide with a grin. He was suddenly the cock of the walk, the cat that got the cream, etc. He spun on his heel and Sandra backed up a little to avoid a crash. "You want to use me for sex."

Gerry was obviously tremendously pleased with himself, and Sandra wondered for the nth time if this was the biggest cock-up of her recent existence. "No," she began, and then shrugged, philosophical and matter-of-fact. "Well, yes, actually, if you want to put it that way. Why not? Unless, of course, you've got something better on." Her tone was confident, and she matched it with that irresistible smile.

"You're my boss," he pointed out, wondering when the hell he had become the voice of reason. "And my friend, yeah?"

"As far as I know. Gerry, if I wanted to screw a stranger, I could do that any day of the week," she stated bluntly. "Frankly, I'm a bit too old for the idea to be appealing."

He didn't particularly want to dwell on the idea of Sandra screwing strangers. "Well, if it's me or the streets," he teased, and she swatted at his shoulder. "No, that's all right," he continued in a tone of bravado. "I'll take one for the team. I'd hate to think what might happen to London if you were turned loose on the city in a sexual frenzy."

Her eyes narrowed. "You _tosser_," she said, but she couldn't entirely suppress a smirk. Gerry's supreme act of self-sacrifice was somewhat diminished by the way he was eyeing her, as if he were starving and she was filet mignon. Her smile widened as he pressed her back against the food preparation island, one of his hands coming to rest behind her on either side of her waist.

"So this agreement?" He was curious, willing to let her lay out her ground rules. He didn't pretend to understand everything that happened in Sandra's mind, but he was more than slightly intrigued.

"Any time we spend together has to be completely separate from the job," she replied instantly, the smile vanishing again. "It has no bearing on UCOS – and if it does, we stop. _Immediately_." She stressed the word.

"You do realise I'm capable of sleeping with you and still respecting you," he deadpanned.

"Why shouldn't you respect me?" she returned. "That's not what this is about. We're colleagues and friends. Sex doesn't change that."

"Yeah, I get it, gov," he replied, pointedly using the title. "I'm not going to ask you to be the fourth Mrs. Standing."

She winced. "Christ, you'd bloody well _better_ not."

"Yeah, and I'm not gonna be the second Mr. Pullman." His hands moved from the counter to rest on her hips, and this time she made no effort to push him away. "So, what's the time-frame here?"

Sandra blinked. "Excuse me?"

He pressed closer. "How often?" he asked precisely.

She knew that he was taking the piss at her formality, but she showed him that she wasn't bothered. "Good question," she replied, unruffled. "Can you handle once a week, Granddad?"

"Would you like to pick a day? And perhaps a time and place for our assignations? Secret password?"

She chose to take the first item on his list seriously. "Thursdays," she said loftily, and dodged away from him, smoothing her skirt over her hips. "I'm off home to change. Finsbury Park. I expect you back _before_ lunch."

Gerry watched Sandra retrieve her handbag and slip her feet into her shoes. He dropped his jaw in mock dismay. "What, no kiss goodbye? Oh, Sandra, you wound me."

She rolled her eyes. "Save it," she suggested smugly, "until next week."

She disappeared into the hallway and he shook his head. The last twelve hours had been – bizarre, frankly. Even more bizarre than his previous Thursday night, which was saying something.

And pretty wonderful.

He heard the door and assumed Sandra had gone, but after a moment she reappeared, now in her red coat and black and white checked scarf. "And Gerry," she admonished, "it's your turn to pick the restaurant, but no organ meat, and no sodding lamb." She flashed him a dazzling, superior grin.

And then she really did leave.

_**Yet More Author's Notes:**_

_**Haiku Non-Epilogue**__ for the divine Dr. Womb, because they are, like, totally her favourite thing in the whole wide world. Prepare to be dazzled, ye mortals, by my poetic genius: _

_Into the sunset?_

_Happily ever after?_

_Well, not exactly._

_**I know, I know – loose ends abound, so I won't bother reciting them. It's remotely possible that I have some ideas of how to tie them up. If you'd like to see a sequel (although the sequel is never as good as the original, unless it's **_**The Godfather**_** – or **_**Austin Powers**_**), you might be able to persuade me…**_


End file.
